Queen to Bishop 6
by ParadigmFilter
Summary: Now AU: What if Regina had actually played the Belle card earlier? Speculations on the nature of the curse. Eventual Rumbelle, with much meandering. Features other characters with less air time
1. Chapter 1: From One Cage to Another

**Chapter 1**

**In which freedom is not what it seems**

_**"Reserve Tempo" (Def.): In chess, a move that although superfluous to the game position, may have great effect by virtue of passing the turn to one's opponent.**_

The woman in the carbon-gray business suit shuffled the stack of forms across the diner's Formica table, and Ella examined the first page. She eyed the photograph in the right-hand corner suspiciously. The disheveled senseless creature that looked back, dull blue gaze unfocused and glazed over, hair a tangled nest of wiry unwashed strands, her complexion simultaneously sallow and oily was not going to win any beauty awards. To aggravate matters, the practically illegible cursive scrolled under the single neatly typed word "Diagnosis" did not inspire optimism. What she could make out did not make much sense, although when she strained her memory, she found that her brain provided some basic reference points, enough to know that paranoid schizophrenia in conjunction with dissociative identity disorder did not bode well at all. She looked up at the dark-haired woman who had signed her release papers three days ago. She had refused to show her the file at the time of Ella's discharge from the psychiatric ward, saying that they needed it to complete some paperwork, but that they could meet in a few days, and she could have a copy. The name next to the photograph said "Ella French." If it's on file, then it must be true, or so people seemed to believe.

Since she had been released from the psychiatric ward, Ella had felt lost and miserable, but that didn't mean she wasn't very slowly putting life back together. Not HER life, whatever that was, but a life, and that was a start. Sometimes, all you could do was put one foot in front of the other, then repeat, until you found yourself walking. While most of the town - or at least those that she had so far encountered - quickly averted their gaze when they saw her, sometimes actually crossing the street just to avoid walking by her, she had found two surprising and unexpectedly fierce allies. Well, maybe not entirely surprising: she had been taken in by the town harlot and the town drunk. Fitting, since she was the town crazy. That first day when Ella had shuffled into the diner, for lack of anywhere else to go, in clothes that weren't hers and with thoughts that made no sense, the redhead took one look at her and apparently decided that Ella was in need of adoption. "Can you cook?" No introductions, pure pragmatics. The diner's line cook said he wanted to take time off that very morning, and Ella had approached the redhead about filling out an application. She could cook, and what she didn't know, she'd learn. She was on a mission: she needed income and a place to stay. She'd think of the rest later. See! One foot in front of the other. No problem. To Ella's delight and utter surprise, they had settled it quickly, and even the stone-faced old woman that was Red's grandma didn't seem to object.

Then there was Leroy. By the end of Ella's first day in the kitchen, the man was the last customer, and he was well and drunk.

" - So, you're the basket case from the looney bin, huh?" he challenged, assessing the fries Red had deposited in front of him like it was a new and interesting species of flesh-eating insect. Ella had just finished her shift.

She examined Leroy, and smiled.

" – Yep, and it's your lucky day."

Leroy raised his eyebrows at her.

"— How'd you figure that, sister?"

"— You know those pink elephants you've been seeing..." she leaned over to him conspiratorially. "Now, someone else can confirm that they're really there. And that one in the corner..." she pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "Is Bob."

Leroy stared at her for a few seconds in total dismay, and then guffawed, shaking his head. Then, when he found out that she didn't have anywhere to stay, he shrugged, gruffly, and said she could stay at his place while he was working on his boat. He'd be staying there, he said, for at least a week. It'd give her time to find a place and get on her feet. Then he downed his beer in one long draw and tossed her the keys with a parting "I hope you're not obsessive compulsive, sister …it ain't the cleanest in there."

She'd begun to tidy Leroy's lair, after bribing a gruff permission out of him with some left-overs from the diner that she had taken to his boat. For some reason, Red and Leroy had simply accepted her, no questions asked, like she was an essential element in the grand scheme of things.

The woman sitting across from her, one Regina Mills, who Ella had discovered was the mayor of the small town, was another matter. She sipped her espresso daintily, a small smile playing on her full, perfectly painted lips. Ella took a sip of her tea, winced a bit at its flat, bitter taste, extracted the teabag by the tail and plopped it down on a saucer. She would kill for a cup of proper tea, although she couldn't remember the last time she had tea that didn't come in a paper sock on a string, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Beggars who were certifiably nuttier than Granny's Pecan pie were especially unlikely to get past toothpaste selection in the choice department.

There wasn't much Ella was sure of since she had been suddenly released from the psych ward. Her time there was a blur of identical days, punctuated by cycles where she regained some level of awareness, only to be plunged back into a foggy complacency where nothing seemed particularly important. Some of her wits returned at short intervals, once in the morning, when she just woke up, and once towards the evening, just before the last meal of the day. There had been medication, small little pills in a cup, sometimes two, sometimes more. The pills had made the world flat, and did something strange to her short-term memory, making her wonder whether today was, in fact, the same day as yesterday. Her long-term memory also felt alien to her, like a story she read, or someone had told her, about a girl growing up with her father, who was a florist down on his luck in a small town.

There was nothing interesting or exceptional about her life, and there was nothing interesting or exceptional about the world itself - one long, predictable, bland story full of cardboard people that said things that sounded rehearsed, and did things that seemed meaningless, day in and day out. People who had small, bland pleasures, and chased after banal goals, only to be thwarted at every turn even in those minuscule endeavors. But then, between the four green walls of her cells, there had been dreams - magical, bright, terrible, full of strange and wondrous creatures, furiously, feverishly alive. Dreaming had been the one thing she revelled in. She would collect the dreams, memorize them upon waking, and turn them into stories she told herself. But more pills came, and made the dreams slip away and fog over, and then her mind didn't have the energy to hold on to them anymore, and she was back to her four walls and memories that tasted of cardboard. Then, something happened when she suddenly began to feel time. She theorized that her body had developed an immunity to the pills, and while the feeling of being IN time was uncomfortable, she had discovered that it was more, for lack of a better word, interesting. Something told her not to show that anything had changed, especially when the dark-haired woman would come by and check on her. Ella had managed to remove a loose screw from the leg of her cot, and the hole was just the right size to squeeze a pill through. Hearing the pills' quiet little clinking as she fed them into their new hiding place had felt oddly satisfying. Slowly, the fog was lifting.

"— Ms French!"

Apparently, Regina had been talking to her, and Ella forced herself to focus on the mayor. There was something odd about Regina Mills' expression: her lips were smiling, but it never seemed to reach her eyes. It made her look a little unhinged herself, as if the top and bottom parts of her face were not on speaking terms. Ella tried to stiffle a smile. No need to antagonize the good mayor by being easily amused, she thought.

"- It is very important that you continue to take your medication, Ms French. You understand that remmission is a very precarious state, and you have quite a serious disorder. And while I am convinced that you will do everything in your power to avoid institutionalization, others might not look upon your condition as kindly, or with as much understanding."

Ella's shoulders hunched a bit, and she pulled the ends of the burgundy shawl Red had let her borrow a bit tighter around herself. Regina noticed, and straightened her shoulders, looking pleased.

" – Your father thought you needed professional care, and I backed him up, since it's my duty as mayor to ensure the security of this community and its members."

Ella nodded, and looked towards the file again. There were other photographs the mayor had brought her. One was of her father, the other of a young man with dark hair and what looked like a permanent scowl. His chin jutted out funny, she thought, examining the picture. She looked from one photograph to the other and felt nothing.

"— Ms Mills, do you remember who this was?" Regina leaned against the back of the booth, tapped the tiny coffee spoon against the side of her cup, and deposited it on the napkin. Ella focused on the photograph.

"— Uh…" she strained, inarticulately, and her memory spat out a name, something rather unhelpfully incongruous like Gaspar, or Casper...

"— Gus Tonner, your high school sweetheart. You got engaged after your graduation. Tragic, what happened to him. The doctors think that your grief was the trigger for your condition."

Ella eyed the rather dull looking fellow on the photograph, and tried to imagine herself in love with him, enough so that she would consider marrying him. She failed. She raised her eyes to the other woman.

" – What happened to him?"

" – You don't recall?" Regina adopted a solicitous expression. Ella didn't buy it. Then a thought occurred to her. She had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Maybe her reaction to Regina was in fact a sign that the diagnosis had been accurate. She shuddered, and quickly pushed the thought aside. Then again, maybe Regina really was out to get her.

"—I must have..."

Ella considered how to phrase it, so that the mayor would not find her suspicious. Some of the jargon the nurses and doctors used had apparently absorbed. "…blocked it out. As too painful?" she finished, looking at Regina with what she hoped was an appropriately bereft expression. The mayor seemed satisfied.

" – Yes, that seems right. Well, Ms French, he drowned" the woman announced, reaching over to Ella's forearm in a sympathetic pat. Ella withstood the contact, clenching her teeth a little, but forcing a small smile and a nod.

" – It was a tragedy, really, a great loss for everyone." Ella felt no sense of loss, not even an inkling of it. Maybe she really was psychologically damaged, she thought. Sociopathic tendencies - yes, that was on the diagnostic laundry list too. Or maybe she had in fact blocked it out, dissociated herself from it to the point of not being able to remember ever knowing him, let alone caring.

She felt her mind strain dangerously, felt it trying to double on itself. One part, the logical part, the one that had a grip on reality, realized that there was no reason for Regina to lie to her, that the woman was trying to help, and that judging by the looks she had been getting around town from the other inhabitants, she really was Storybrooke's token nutcase. That logical part of her mind insisted that all the evidence she had at her disposal suggested that she, Ella French, was fundamentally and irrecoverably broken. The other part, however, refused to accept the obvious, and stubbornly insisted that she was nothing like her description in the file, and that everyone around her was living a lie, that they were either deluding themselves and not seeing the big picture, or, like Regina, trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Which, according to her file, was precisely the kind of thought pattern one would expect from someone with her diagnosis.

Ella sighed. She had to stay focused. Whatever the case might be, she did not want to go back to the four walls. So staying in the mayor's good graces, and acting as one might expect from someone on the road to recovery was important. She'd burn the other bridges when she crossed them. Regina smiled and gathered her purse.

"— Well, Ms French, best of luck to you. Do not hesitate to contact me for anything, and of course, weekly consultations with Dr Hopper and monthly with Dr Whale. I'll be keeping an eye on your progress."

It sounded ominous.

"—I'll arrange for the hospital to transfer your prescription to the pharmacy." The mayor got up to leave. Ella closed the file and pushed it towards Regina, but the woman shook her head.

" – Keep it, Ms French. You know what they say - once warned, twice ready." She smiled. Ella didn't know who "they" were, or why they would say such bizarre things, so she shrugged and nodded. She suspected Regina wanted her to keep the file to better impart on Ella the gravity of her condition.

The bell above the diner's entrance clanked, and drew Ella's attention from the mayor to the man who walked in. She noticed Regina nod at him on her way out then glance back at Ella quickly before turning away. Something about the mayor's expression changed for a split second, and she looked smug, triumphant even. Then it was gone, replaced by a veneer of perfectly neutral civility. Ella's eyes returned to the newcomer, whose face she could now see, and had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, her heart thumping heavily, almost painfully, in her chest. She felt herself edge instinctively towards the corner of the booth, where the man's view was at least partially blocked by the plush back of the seat.

The man hadn't noticed her. He went up to the counter and ordered a coffee, propping himself up on his cane to land on the tall bar stool. He extended what was obviously his bad leg and let it rest against the bottom of the stool next to him. In spite of the cane, there was a lightness and precision to his movement, a kind of coiled energy. His clothes, like the mayor's, looked expensive and tailored to fit him flawlessly. He was older, but with a kind of ageless quality, as if time wasn't something he was used to wearing. The thought was odd, but somehow made sense, so Ella let it go. She watched the other customers, although the diner was almost empty in its mid-morning lull. A weird cloud of discomfort seemed to settle on them, as if the man's presence drained the room of any levity. It was as if he was encased in an invisible bubble most people would be very reluctant to breach. She knew who he was, of course, and that might account for the intimidation factor.

The logical, sane part of her knew a lot about the town, remembered its history and its inhabitants, although the knowledge was dry and theoretical. Apparently, the cardboard cut-outs came equipped with a legend, because she knew that the man sitting at the counter was the town's pawnbroker and principal landlord. The weird, dangerous part of her that refused to buy into the world, fluttered wildly at the sight of him, screaming that he was, somehow, at the heart of it all, that he was the only real thing in the place. That part also had very intense and confused feelings for this man, but ones that she couldn't really unravel or understand. A heaviness there, like guilt, or rancor, only with a tinge of something else, something darker and more desperate. Ella was used to watching her emotions play across her mind, like shadow puppets on a wall. They had been her only companions in the four walls, and she had learned to watch the play without getting too involved in it. The rational half ventured an explanation to account for the unreasonable one's agitation.

Mr Gold - that, she recalled, was the pawnbroker's name - had apparently ruined her father and then beaten him so severely Moe French had ended up in the hospital. Certainly, that should be sufficient - but she fully realized her reaction didn't "match." Here was another tangled web she wasn't sure how to unweave. Her father had gotten her committed. She didn't feel sane, exactly, but she certainly didn't remember doing the crazy, violent things that her file had mentioned. But if her own father had been sufficiently afraid of her to sign her off to the looney bin and misplace the key, then she wasn't going to run back to him hoping that he'd suddenly had a change of heart. Besides, there was something else about her father that bothered her. She realized that she ought to feel something where the big empty hole sat in the middle of her chest, but it remained - well, empty. The man who was her father - although it was easier to call him Moe French - should have known better than try to go back on a deal with the pawnbroker. Something told her that this Mr Gold was the obsessively exacting kind, one that might, in fact, come for his pound of flesh if he thought it was his due. What on Earth would one want with that proverbial pound of flesh, anyway, she wondered suddenly. The stories never specified. You certainly couldn't sell it back to cover the debt you were owed - as collateral, it seemed royally useless. Or the first born child, for that matter, the monster always wanted the first born, but to what end? To eat it, maybe? But then, why the first born? Would the sequence really make any…culinary difference, if that was indeed the goal? As her thoughts ran, wild and undisciplined, chasing down after the random insights, Ella was suddenly startled by the realization that the man at the counter had turned his head and was staring right at her. She stopped breathing.

A strange shadow passed across his face, and settled in his eyes, while his lips tightened for a split second. She stared at him openly, her mind contorting itself to try to fit him against a strange image, a mask she didn't quite recognize but felt was missing. It slipped off the edge of her consciousness, a memory from a dream that wasn't hers, and there was only a man with sharp features and dark eyes, not handsome, exactly, but oddly riveting, his face molding into an inscrutable barrier between her and what went on in his head. Then he turned away, but with just a fraction of hesitation. This wasn't a man who averted his gaze from the town nutbag, furtively, as if she might turn out to be contagious. There was something else there.

Ella clasped her hands in her lap and stared down at her short nails. It was almost time to return to work from her break, but she wanted to catch his gaze again, just to see if she had imagined the strangeness between them. She gathered her courage and looked up, only to see the door close behind his back.

Maybe she really was insane.

Regina left the diner, fighting the urge to take one last peek through the windows. She thought at first that the scrawny waste of space that she had kept so carefully stashed away might prove to be a problem - sadly, the girl wasn't as dimwitted as she looked - but her plan had been risky, and long to implement, so she couldn't afford any glitches. The file had been a stroke of genius, of course. She'd have to thank Sydney, he gave her the idea. After all - and Sydney himself was the ironic proof of that - the best cage is never the one we see, but the one we carry in ourselves, invisible. The universe, Regina thought with a smirk, had a sense of humor that was as perverse as it was abundant.

She strolled leisurely towards her car, enjoying the brisk air, and looking up at the deep blue sky. She smiled. How fortuitous that the old devil had decided to visit the diner just then. The sad little fiend would discover his lost treasure, and Regina was pretty sure that if she provided a long enough stretch of rope, he just might stick his scrawny neck in the noose and go dangling. With his precious pet there to unwittingly kick the stool from under him, if Regina played her hand right. She had arranged almost all her chess pieces, and was pleased with the results. It was an effective solution to all her recent problems, the blighted Sheriff Swan included, but more importantly, it was elegant. With a small nod to no-one in particular, she walked on.

At the end of the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box.


	2. Chapter 2: Of Mice and Other Creatures

**Disclaimer: I don't own any ouat characters**

**Folks, this little story stems out of ultimate procrastination on other writing projects I actually have to be doing. This means that I'm in no hurry to finish it, so if you're in it for the happy ending, expect delayed gratification ;) Also, this means that if it goes AU or, less likely, some elements turn out to be creepily prophetic in relation to the show, I apologize.**

**Thanks for your endorsements, and those who comment or review - you're awesome! If you have feedback or suggestions, send them along. If you have requests for cameos or prompts, let me know, and I'll take them into advisement. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"_**A knight on the rim is grim" - in Chess, an aphorism that refers to the necessity of bringing the knight towards the center of the board to maximize its mobility and efficacy.**_

The thermostat in Leroy's place ran low, and the walls were full of mice. Lying on the army cot in what passed as the living room, a thin layer of yellow foam that served as a mattress topped over with a sleeping bag, Ella theorized that the mice had been living there for generations, slowly multiplying and evolving into a complex feudal society. They had rival fiefdoms that drew up mousy alliances, mousy arranged marriages between political heirs, and they planned and waged mousy wars. At the moment, it sounded like they were in the midst of a minor skirmish over some contested part of the bathroom wall. The heroic squeaks had woken her up, fourteen minutes after four, and although she tried to huddle deeper into the sleeping bag, the cold had seeped into her bones. Maybe the mice were simply trying to keep warm through warfare. Ella wondered if their entire social order would change if she figured out how to fix Leroy's heating system.

Sleep was clearly not in the cards, so she got up and started getting ready for work. The regular cook had decided he wanted to come back, but Ruby categorically refused to let Ella go. The stubborn redhead somehow convinced Granny to keep Ella as the morning cook, working the first shift from 6am to lunch. That way, Ruby said, they could open earlier and stay open later - it would be financially advantageous. Apparently, Granny had not only seen the wisdom of such economic maximization, but concluded that she was the one who came up with the idea in the first place, and Ella retained her job. She was delighted with the arrangement. The morning crowd was thinner, and she enjoyed making breakfast. She also enjoyed getting up at a time when the rest of the world was sound asleep, like she could sneak up on its secrets while it thought it was safe in the pre-dawn darkness.

Unsurprisingly, the water ran cold exactly five minutes and one head full of conditioner into her shower. Then the pressure dropped to a drip. Hopping from one foot to the next on the cold tiles and trying to pick remnants of conditioner from her ears, Ella stumbled into her Monday clothes - which, incidentally, were separated from her Tuesday clothes by exactly one item. She found herself doing an interesting clothing arithmetic. Ruby, whom she kept calling Red, accidentally, because of the hair, had suggested that she not be seen in the same outfit two days in a row. It made "one" look "unkempt." Since, according to Ruby's logic, looking unkempt and looking crazy were next door neighbors, one way to signal one's psychological adequacy was to appear like you spent the better part of your morning agonizing over your ensemble. Ella was willing to admit that it made some basic sense - at the very least you could demonstrate that you had a rudimentary grasp of calendric time, since you could recall what you wore the day prior, and avoid it. Assuming anyone noticed or cared, that is - Ella had her doubts. So she had gotten exactly enough articles of clothing from the thrift store to last her a week by changing one item between days. It ate significantly into the advance Ruby had insisted she take against her monthly salary, but looking presentable was high on the one foot then the next tactical approach to life.

Men, she decided, had it easier. They could simply wear the same suit and just change the tie and shirt. If the tie was flashy enough, maybe no one would even notice the rest. As if it was just waiting for an excuse, her mind conjured up the image of one particularly richly colored tie, and the face that went on top of it. Ella frowned, jamming her feet into her flats with unnecessary zeal, and shooed the apparition away. Obsessively thinking about Storybrooke's pawnbroker was neither productive, nor particularly satisfying, which meant it served no purpose for the greater life-rebuilding initiative. She filed it away under "useless." The weird part of her mind, apparently spurred on by the color association with the tie, if not by some perverse sense of equilibrium, suddenly conjured up an utterly outrageous outfit and pinned it on her image of Gold, whatever his first name was - a thing of red velvet with large gaudy metallic buttons. It should have looked ridiculous but it worked…almost. She thought she heard a cackle emanate from the crazy side of the fence she imagined ran through her brain and separated the good, rational part from the rest. It sounded decidedly batty. She re-filed the pawnbroker, ties and all, under "useless AND dangerous."  
From there, things got temporarily back on track, a morning routine that was starting to become comfortable. It had been five days since Regina had left her with the file, even if it had felt like much longer. 24 hours was apparently a whole lot of time when you weren't limited to four walls and a square of institutional lenoleum. And when you weren't medicated. She had picked up her prescription the day after the mayor's visit to the diner, money borrowed against herself padding her jacket pocket, and made a show of fussing over the pills for everyone's benefit. She'd dispose of it as soon as she could, but meanwhile it was best to avoid the good mayor's scrutiny. The guy behind the counter didn't look like he was particularly captivated by her performance of medical diligence. He was too busy filling his handkerchief with snot. A pharmacist who was sick was like a pawnbroker who was poor... Ella stopped, carefully pocketing the keys she was using to lock the front door to Leroy's place, and proceeded to give herself a sound smack on the forehead with her open palm. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't pleasant. Conditioning, that's what she needed. She vaguely remembered something about conditioned reflexes, one of the rare conversations between the nurses, in between shifts. Something about the good old days of electric shock. Then again, if it worked, she'd give it a try, minus the electricity.

She walked down the empty street, a brisk wind blowing at her calves and carrying last year's dead leaves. Spring was there, but it seemed shy and tentative, unconvinced that it was really its turn. The sky in the east had acquired a beautiful turquoise luminescence, and Ella watched the craggy outlines of trees, dark and sharp against the glow. They looked a little evil, like the ill-intentioned trees in an enchanted forest, ones that tore at your clothes with their branches and creaked menacingly as you tried to flee from the thing chasing you.

Pulling her jacket closer around herself, she walked a little faster. The feeling of fear was primitive and irrational - there weren't any monsters stalking her now, or any other time. The world of Storybrooke was an exercise in studied ordinariness. Its shadows were just that - shadows, and there weren't things that went bump in the night. And even if there were, Ella reassured herself, by this hour they were probably tired of bumping anyway, and were sound asleep. Ella straightened her shoulders. Besides, if her file was any indication, she was probably the closest thing Storybrooke had to a boogeyman. The thought was simultaneously sad and oddly comforting.

Ella was crossing the street by a large green sign when a small movement drew her attention. She turned, peering into the darkness at the mouth of the alley, on the other side of the street. She would have to walk right in front of it to get to work. She slowed, then hesitated before rounding the corner that would put her on a straight path to the safety of the diner. She stared. It was nothing remarkable really, just a very strange play of shadows, that looked like someone was crouching there, in the darkness between the wall and a dumpster. A very slight movement, barely a flicker, had caught her peripheral vision - she would have walked right by it otherwise - but as she stared, the shadows remained perfectly still. The longer she stayed, however, eyeing the offending spot, the more it felt like it was eying her right back. She felt the small hairs at the nape of her neck begin to move, and her forearms broke out in gooseflesh. "Oh, bugger" she muttered, and hurried by, looking straight ahead, clenched fists jammed deep into her pockets. Nothing happened, but she couldn't shake the itchy feeling at the back of her neck, like someone was watching her. Or something.

The fluorescent lights were on, and the diner smelled of fresh coffee and sweet pastries. Ruby was there already, fussing with a box of glazed doughnuts that the bakery had delivered that morning. She grinned at Ella, all mischief and sharp white teeth, her bright red skirt microscopically short, and her hair in a high ponytail that looked like a volcanic eruption, and Ella felt herself relax instantly.

"- You..." Ruby pointed one sharp red claw in Ella's general direction. "... look like you need a sugar infusion. Did you see a ghost on your way here, or something? Your eyes are taking up way too much room on your face."  
Ella laughed and accepted the sticky death trap gratefully.

"- Do you have one that lives in that alley across the street?"  
Ruby considered the question, and even stretched her neck to look out the window and into the street. She shrugged.

"- Not to my knowledge."  
They sat in companionable silence, Ella munching thoughtfully on her doughnut, Ruby wiping the dust from the pastry case.

" - Can I ask you something?" Ruby said suddenly, looking up.  
Ella stopped chewing for a second and raised an eyebrow in encouragement. When Ruby didn't say anything, she resumed chewing and made a motion for her to continue with her hand.

" - Why were you in the hospital, anyway? I mean, no one has seen you in, like, ages. I remember going to high school with you, but then it's as if you disappeared." She frowned. "No, scratch that. When you were back, it's as if I suddenly remembered you existed in the first place. And that we went to high school together, though I think you were several grades ahead of me. Except..." She frowned.

"- Except...?"  
Ruby looked embarrassed.

" - I don't know. It's like I've known you all along, and I immediately recognized you when you came in, but before that I wouldn't even have given you a thought. Like, never wondered how you were doing." She hesitated. "Does that make me a... bad person? Shallow, right?"  
Ella shrugged, then thought for a second, and shook her head.

" - No, I don't think it makes you shallow. I think maybe it has something to do with how we deal with things we don't understand. You were barely a teenager when my father decided to institutionalize me. I don't think you knew what that meant - for all intents and purposes there was something wrong with me, and I had to be put away. And you moved on with your life, which is quite natural, and healthy." It struck her that she, too, didn't have a clue of what that meant.  
Ruby didn't seem convinced, and Ella could tell something was still gnawing at her, but she kept it to herself, and smiled her toothy grin.

" - Well, however it works, I'm glad you're back, and not swinging a bloody axe at the customers. Now, lets get this place ready to open."  
Ella returned the smile, then contorted her face into a suitably deranged expression and mimed a few axe swings on her way to the kitchen. Ruby's chuckles sounded a little dark, but Ella was happy that she had managed to lighten the mood. What was the point of being crazy if you couldn't joke about it?

By 9am, Ella was ready to take a short break. Her body craved tea like it was some kind of magic elixir. She knew people seemed to get addicted to coffee, and as the early morning crowd came in, many sported an expression of dull concentration, and seemed to carry their heads very carefully on their shoulders, like the precious contents of their skulls wouldn't withstand any rattling. The condition was apparently cured by ingesting caffeine. Her relationship to tea was different - it was comforting.

As she placed the last order on the little counter that separated the kitchen from the eating area, Ruby poked her head in.  
" - It's official. You have an admirer."

Ella cocked her head in puzzlement. Ruby winked demonstratively.  
" - Isn't it time for your break?"

Ella was curious, as well as a little frustrated. The blasted redhead had that self-satisfied expression that indicated clearly she wouldn't reveal the identity of said admirer under threat of bodily harm. Ella took her apron off and marched into the diner area, making a beeline for the coffee machine with its reservoir of boiling water. She looked around, only to find 5 people in the diner. There was a father with two kids, a girl and a boy. They were enthusiastically digging into their brunch food and exchanging full-mouthed quips under their father's smiling gaze.

Then there was Sheriff Swan, all blond ringlets and hard-set jaw, guzzling coffee and scrolling something on a legal pad, occasionally gnawing absentmindedly at the tip of her pen. What she was doing outside of the station was anyone's guess. When she spotted her, the sheriff's speculative gaze latched onto Ella for a long few seconds, and as far as gazes went, it was on the heavy side. And then, at the counter, exactly where she saw him that first time, was Gold. He was finishing up a tomato and ham omelet - for some reason, she had remembered the order when it came in, although it was of course perfectly banal. He was seemingly oblivious to her presence, absorbed in a newspaper. Ella looked back at Ruby, but the traitor ignored her silent question and went to check on the family in the corner. Ella frowned slightly and proceeded to the coffee machine. The crazy part of her was oddly quiet - perhaps laying in wait - and the sudden silence was anything but reassuring. She felt someone's eyes on her as she stood, her back to the room, fixing her tea. It made her feel unreasonably nervous, so she focused on the teabag slowly staining the hot water in the cup.

" - Ms French, my compliments. Your cooking is lovely." She turned slowly to face him. The weird part of her mind stirred behind its fence, and piped up, unhelpfully, that the voice was different, deeper and with all the gleefulness drained from it. Like all the humor had been wrung out, and what was left was at once more dangerous, and more brittle. Of course, it made no sense. Then again, his voice was not familiar, it did not evoke immediate recognition. She would have remembered, had she heard it before. Had they never spoken before she was committed? Not a single time? She remembered who he was...  
She wrestled herself out of her head.

" - Why, thank you." She smiled, and to her surprise, it felt almost genuine.  
They looked at each other. He seemed to hesitate on what to do or say next, and her mind drew a complete blank. If she focused very hard, Ella thought she might hear the wind howling in the sudden emptiness between her ears.

" - Ms French, do you have a second to chat?" Sheriff Swan had somehow materialized on the other side of the counter. She didn't look pleased, but then Ella guessed that the sheriff rarely was in a prancing unicorns kind of mood. The rational part of Ella's mind was grateful for the intrusion, while the creepy part was… something. Disappointed, but relieved? She wasn't about to go digging in there. As long as it stayed behind the fence, they'd get along just fine.

" - I'm sorry, sheriff. I have to get back to the kitchen, but can this wait until after noon?" Ella beamed at her, proper mix of apology and enthusiasm.  
Sheriff Swan looked thoughtful, then nodded. Before pivoting on her heels and marching out, she gave the pawnbroker a warning look, lips tight, eyebrows drawn. It seemed to say "Keep your nose out of sheriff business." The pawnbroker seemed to chuckle to himself discreetly and returned his attention to chasing a chunk of tomato around with his fork.

" - Could you swing by the station after your shift ends?"  
Ella nodded a "Sure," smiled noncommittally in the general direction of both the sheriff and the pawnbroker, grabbed her mug of tea and scurried away into the kitchen. Well, not scurried, so much, as walked briskly and efficiently. She ran into Ruby on her way, and almost dropped her tea.

" - Well, at least one mystery of Storybrooke is solved." Ruby sounded definitive.

" - And what's that?" Ella felt herself relax, exhaling a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.  
The redhead pointed her chin in the direction of the eating area, since her hands were occupied with a tray.

" - Gold."

" - What about him?" Ella frowned.

" - He eats."

That gave her pause.

" - What did you think he does, drink blood?"

Ruby grinned, then shrugged.

" - Considering how much he charges for rent, he might as well."

Ella returned to the kitchen, smiling slightly at the mental image of fangs and billowing capes. She noticed that ideas about the world came easier now – her brain no longer felt like a dusty underground archive manned by a senile octogenarian. She wondered how vampires talked around their fangs. Surely, it took practice, it wouldn't do to walk around threatening people with a lisp. She forced herself to focus.

What did the sheriff want from her, that was the question.

Something told Ella she wasn't going to like it.


	3. Chapter 3: Past Lives

**Disclaimer: I do not own any OUAT characters.**  
**Folks, as always thanks for the endorsements reviews and feedback always welcome! ****Chapters now feature a small preview or teaser in addition to the obscure chess reference.** Enjoy!

**Chapter 3, **

**In which Emma Swan reflects on the nature of Hieronymus Bosch, Ella discovers that all questions are trick-questions, and Regina is heard, but not seen.**

** - "Kick:" In chess, the act of attacking a piece, typically by a pawn, so that it will move.**

Sheriff Swan sat with her legs propped against the edge of her desk, high leather boots crossed at the ankles, cowboy style. Her chair was precariously balanced on its two back legs, and Ella hesitated before knocking on the open office door for fear of startling the sheriff into toppling over. The hesitation turned out to be moot - the sheriff obviously knew she was standing there without diverting her attention from her reading.

"- Ms French, please come in." The blond woman didn't raise her eyes from the manila folder spread on her lap, but pointed to a chair on the opposite side of her desk. Ella marched over to it, glancing over at the empty jail cells, and sat down. Her attention was drawn to a spattering of newspaper clippings lying helter-skelter atop the sheriff's desk. Most were from "The Daily Mirror." She caught a couple of headlines.

"Young Man's Tragic Drowning Has Town in Shock"

"Evidence in Young Man's Death Inconclusive. Police Looking for Clues."

"String of Gruesome "Art" Pieces Shocks Storybrooke! Police Looking for Suspects."

"Storybrooke's 'Hieronymus Bosch' Strikes Again! Residents Outraged, Worried for Safety."

"Hieronymus Bosch Identified! Woman Driven Mad by Fianc s Death Gives Her Nightmares Flesh!"

Most of the articles were dated to five years ago. Ella frowned. She couldn't read the small print under the headlines, but for some reason had the distinct sense that the articles were directly connected to her. "Tragic drowning..." Did she not have a conversation recently about someone drowning?

Emma Swan looked up at the young woman sitting opposite her and frowned. The girl was thin, with an open, slightly childish face, though her light blue eyes were haunted by too many shadows, dispelling any first impression of innocent youth, let alone immaturity. Emma had been trying to wrap her mind around the contents of the manila folder that had landed on her desk the night before. Someone had dropped it off in the mail, in a sealed envelope labeled "Attn: Emma Swan, Sheriff. Urgent." Naturally, it quickly became clear who that someone was. The file came with a "cover letter" of sorts, a sheet of thick cream-colored resume paper covered in an elegant scrawl Emma immediately recognized. Regina's handwriting was unmistakable - both flowery and precise, it always made Emma think of quills and ink blots.  
She re-read it.

"Sheriff Swan, it has come to my attention that you might wish to familiarize yourself with the most recent addition to our town. Ms French has had a rather troubled past, and while I hope that her treatment has been successful, it is best for the safety of all that you know why she spent the last years in an institution. To this end, I am including a series of clippings that reference the circumstances of her institutionalization. You can also find the records pertaining to the case in the police station archive.  
Ms Swan, I know you and I have had our differences in the past, and that I have sometimes acted in a rather heavy-handed manner to ensure this town's security. I will be honest with you, I can't guarantee that this enmity between us will not continue in the future, although I would prefer, for Henry's sake, to avoid it. In this particular instance, however, I have reason to ask for your help - before her treatment, Ms French's pathological behavior had been escalating. You and I both have someone we care about very much, and whose safety comes first. If nothing else, keep this in mind - both you and I are, in our own ways, first and foremost, mothers. Please take this into consideration when you review these materials. Even if we don't always see eye to eye, I assure you, Ms Swan, that in this case, we are on the same side. I ask you that you keep a lookout for Ms French - I will not interfere with your activity as a sheriff, and trust you to act in accordance with your best judgment. Moe French, Ella French's father, was someone I always felt an affinity for, and when it became clear that the only way of keeping his daughter from being dragged through a trial was to seek psychological help for her, I chose to weigh in.

One last thing, Ms Swan - I am unsure if this pertains, and there was never confirmation. I do, however, have reason to believe that Ms French's association with Mr Gold prior to her institutionalization might have contributed to her psychological decline. I am not aware of the exact nature of their relationship, although there were rumors, of course - this is, after all, a small town. In any case, whether those rumors reflected any kind of reality, you and I both know how manipulative our pawnbroker can be, not to mention the difference in age and power between them - it could be a cause for alarm bells to go off, as it were. Consider, too, his recent gruesome outburst at Mr French - while I do not know what it was about, nor what provoked him, it is clear that there are some unresolved issues there, and I wonder if it has something to do with Ella French.

Anyway, I should really get out of the habit of telling you how to do your job - it clearly doesn't foster any good feelings between us. But I would like to encourage you to speak to Dr Hopper about Ms French's progress, as well as watch any renewed interest on the part of Mr Gold.

Regards,  
Regina Mills, Mayor."

If Emma didn't know any better, she'd think that the mayor had a sudden bout of sincerity. The letter read almost warm - well, not warm, exactly, but honest, at least. It was a letter between enemies who respected each other, and who had a temporary common goal.

She had been very skeptical at first. Mr Gold was certainly not the only manipulative one in town - it was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, as far as Emma was concerned. But then, as she read through the clippings, and went through the records of complaints - there had never been charges pressed, but a series of phone call transcripts, people calling in to the station to report the incidents - she began to doubt. There was too much on record, and not just in that crappy local rag the "Daily Mirror." The news had somehow gotten to some of the regional newspapers as well, and a brief search had turned up some news articles on the internet, too. By all appearances, there really had been a drowning in Storybrooke - at least that had been confirmed.  
The information associated with Ms French and her behavior after her alleged boyfriend or fianc had died was more nebulous. Most of the non-local newspapers cited the Daily Mirror as their source, and it was small news - mostly reported for the weirdness factor, she thought. There was nothing really criminal about what she had been doing beyond possible charges of vandalism. Until the last case. The MO on that one had been a bit different, but there were enough apparent continuities with the previous cases to suggest an escalation.

The Daily Mirror had, of course, coined a flashy name for Ms French's alleged activities. Emma had to look up Hieronymus Bosch, and what she found made her shake her head and tighten her jaw. The Dutch painter clearly had a rather feverish imagination, and obviously believed that more "stuff" crammed unto the canvas made for better paintings. She looked at the blurry pictures provided with the newspaper clippings, then the more precise ones stapled to the police reports. It wasn't that the strange tableaus were depicting Hell, exactly - she guessed that the analogy with Bosch came from the incongruous juxtaposition of objects within them. And the fact that the tableaus were still rather disturbing in their own right. Where and how Ms French found the components for her "still-lives" was anyone's guess.

" - Sheriff, you wanted to speak to me?"

Emma looked up. The young woman was fidgeting uncomfortably on the hard chair, her eyebrows drawn together. Emma noticed that the girl's hands were twisted in her lap, and she kept stealing furtive glances at the jail cells, like she was expecting to end up in one. Emma instantly felt sorry for her, there was something so lost, yet so resolute about the former mental patient it was a feeling she recognized. Then she frowned, grasping at a gnawing sense of unease. Her instincts told her that there was something not quite right about Ms French, something under the likable, sweet surface that was both steely, and very alien.

" - Ms French, I'm sorry to have to call you in like this. I know you're just trying to get your life back together, but I haven't been sheriff for long and I look to know my town."

She hated herself for repeating, almost verbatim, the intent spelled out in Regina's letter.  
The girl nodded and stared at the clippings.

" - These are meant to be about me, aren't they?"

Emma nodded. She gathered them in an approximation of a stack and pushed them towards Ella French. The young woman studied them, one after another, with an expression of deep concentration. She stared at the photographs for a long time, especially the last one. Suddenly, she tried to flip it, to look at it from the side. Emma almost smiled - it was such an unselfconscious gesture it was almost like a child trying to make sense of a picture that refused to fall into place.

" - Did I do these...huh..." Ella looked up at the sheriff, a bit helplessly, her face wrinkling up into an unconscious expression of puzzled distaste. "What are they, exactly?"

" - Honestly, I was hoping you could tell me that, Ms French."

Ella looked back at the photographs, then stacked them, decisively, and returned the whole pile to the desk.

" - I have no idea what they are. I've no memory of doing any of these things the newspaper describes. In fact, I don't even remember the drowning of this Gus Tonner person, nor do I remember being engaged to him." She sounded frustrated and a little frightened. Then she appeared to regroup, finishing with more confidence. "I know that must sound really strange to you. Obviously, it looks like I did all this - but it's like that whole piece of my life has a giant fence around it, and I can't see over it. I don't actually recall how I ended up in an institution, but I remember life there. I also remember life with my father, growing up in Storybrooke."

Emma listened intently. She wasn t an expert in psychology, but from what she did know, it sounded like the girl had repressed memories. Regina was right, she would have to talk to Hopper.

" - What about the people your remember from your life in Storybrooke? Did you have friends? A job? Except for your father, do you recall anyone you were close to?"

Ella French looked out of the window, her forehead pinched in concentration.

" - I don't know. I remember everyone, and I think I was on good terms with everybody." She hesitated, as if there was something that bothered her, but she didn't come forward about it. "You know, nothing unusual... anyway, yes, I remember most people. Not you, I think you're new here, right?"

She bit her lower lip, focusing, her gaze turned inward at something Emma couldn t see. The sheriff nodded.

" - What about friends, though? People you were close with? You and Ruby seem to get along, were your friends in school?"

The girl's expression cleared at the question.

" - No, I think we weren't. Ruby is younger, and it mattered more at that age, I think. We became much closer since I've been back. Leroy, too, I remember him as, you know, the town drunk, but I don't think I appreciated how much of a nice guy he is, despite the gruffness, you know?"

Emma shrugged noncommittally and nodded.

" - What about Mr Gold? Did you know him back then?"

A strange expression passed across the girl's face, and Emma's metaphorical ears pricked up. She wasn't sure what that was, exactly, but she knew complicated emotions when she saw them. The girl buried it quickly, almost on instinct. Interesting. Could it be that Madam Mayor was not talking out of her ass about the Gold connection, for once?

" - I don't see how. He's older, he's one of the most powerful people in town. I can't imagine we'd even crossed paths much."

" - So you don't remember him?"

" - No, I do, I remember him as the town's pawnbroker. His shop had been there as far back as I can think."

Emma chewed on that.

" - But you don't remember having an association with him. He was not even much of an acquaintance, is what you're saying?"  
Ella hesitated for a second, then shook her head.  
- No, sheriff, I can t say I did.

The sheriff scrutinized the young woman carefully. That was one slippery response not a lie, exactly, but something awfully close to it. Ella French was definitely hiding something, but she also seemed nervous, uncomfortable, and confused. Whatever she was hiding wasn't yet reason to assume she was guilty of anything. In fact, might be the victim, too. Then there was the additional complication of Gold. She knew from experience that all sorts of weird trouble brewed under that steely veneer of his. Besides, there was no reason to get suspicious of the girl yet - it s not like she was being accused. Regina had simply asked Emma to watch for signs of psychosis, not pin her as a criminal. Then again, the still-lives were just deeply _wrong_, and the last one ... Well, the last one was a bit of a cop-show puzzle, and Emma was going to get to it.

The sheriff shook her head to clear it. Was the job finally getting to her? Or did the events with Mary Margaret and Kathryn s disappearance (and sudden reappearance) make her increasingly paranoid, not just about the mayor, but about everybody? She focused on the problem at hand, which, at that precise moment, was biting her nails.

"- Ok, Ms French, lets..." She didn t have a chance to finish. With an "Emma, I think I figured out who -" Henry came crashing into the office, then saw the unfamiliar figure, clammed his mouth shut and skidded to a stop by Emma s desk. took my lunch at school? he finished hesitantly, examining Ms French with open curiosity. Emma quickly scooped the photos and clippings into a pile and shoved them into her desk drawer.

" - Hi. I m Henry." The kid extended his hand, and Ella French shook it gingerly, a genuinely sweet smile illuminating her otherwise troubled features.

" - And I'm Ella. It's nice to make your acquaintance, Henry." Henry gave Emma a meaningful look, and she did a slight eye roll. She would hear an earful after Ms French was gone as to her possible identity as a fairy tale character. Emma was begrudgingly looking forward to it - the kid was imaginative, and sometimes his theories were a hoot.

" - Ok, kid. You and I are on a mission to find some ice-cream, and Ms French probably has better things to do than sit around my office all day." She turned to her visitor. "We'll chat again. I d like you to stop by the station some time next week. Maybe you'll have remembered something?"

Ella shrugged, but smiled and nodded, and walked out. Emma could hear her soft footsteps echoing down the hallway when the kid turned to her, his eyes huge:

" - Do you know who she is?"

Emma smiled, and ruffled his hair.

" - You tell me. I'm kind of at a loss."

Henry adopted a deeply meditative expression.

" - We have to figure it out. I think it might be crucial for Operation Cobra."

" - Alright, kid. We can go figure it out over some Rocky Road." They left the building side by side, Henry rattling off theories and Emma chuckling and venturing a few of her own.


	4. Chapter 4: Home is Where the Heart Is

*******An updated version, with a typo fixed ******** (I'm bad with names...)**. Sorry for the doublepost

**As usual, I don't own any ouat characters. **

**Here's some fluff for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4**

**In which Ella loses a roof, finds a tea set, and makes a most irregular deal.**

**Gambit (def): In chess, the sacrifice (usually of a pawn) used to gain an early advantage of space and /or time in the opening.**

Ella left the police station and looked at the sky. The beautifully clear day had somehow turned dim and dark, with heavy rainclouds rushing quickly overhead to be replaced by even darker ones. The wind rustled the tops of trees, tearing at the young green leaves as if it was infuriated by the very possibility of spring. The air smelled of humidity with a hint of ozone, and the temperature had dropped ten degrees, the chill creeping through her cheap raincoat and gnawing at her bones. Since she'd been out, it felt like she could never get warm.

She started towards the house, mulling over her conversation with the sheriff, when a familiar figure hurried to her. Leroy was bundled in a fisherman's coat, and carried a large duffel bag.

" – Listen, sister, I hate to do this to you, but I gotta come home this evening. Weather warning. There's a bad storm rolling off the ocean, will be at it for a few days. The boat just ain't safe. You can still stay, don't take this as my kicking you out, or anything, but it might be a little crammed with the both of us there."

Ella smiled at Leroy and shook her head.

" – I'll talk to Ruby. Besides, it's time I found my own place, anyway. Let me see what I can figure out. Hopefully, I'll be able to move out before this storm hits." She grinned. "It's not like I have much stuff."

Leroy looked flustered.

" – Aw, no, it's not like that. This is making me feel like an ass. It's just that it's a small apartment, and you're a young woman, and need your space for whatever it is you young women do…"

He trailed off, looking up at her for help.

" – Leroy, you have nothing to apologize for. You've been an amazing friend, and you saved me from being homeless when you really didn't know me or have to trust me." She smiled at him warmly and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. "But you're right, I need my own space, maybe this is fate's way of saying that now is a good time to start."

The man smiled into his beard and made an acquiescing sound, something between a grunt and a snort.

" - I'll be back later to pick up my stuff, ok?"

He nodded.

" – Alright, sister. And if you don't find anywhere, don't worry. We'll make do."

With that, they parted ways, Ella walking off with an increasing sense of anxiety. She had a feeling that even if Ruby said yes, Granny might have objections. It's not like the Bed & Breakfast had tons of clients, but they had to make rent, and having squatters, let alone patently insane squatters, wasn't going to add charm to the place. She considered. Since she'd been out, she became increasingly aware of the fact that the world apparently rotated around money, and that personal relationships and monetary arrangements were mutually incompatible. There was always the potential of a nasty reaction, like when you put a drop of vinegar on baking soda. All kinds of hissing and bubbling she'd rather avoid.

As far as Ella was concerned, she had two options. The first one was to go live at her father's house, wherever that was. She didn't find the option particularly appealing, but the second option was worse. In fact, it was, in a lot of ways, the worst of them all, but it was also the one that got to the heart of the problem and refused to compromise, and hence, it was appealing. She needed a place to stay, and she wanted to keep her independence. The only way to do that was to find her own place, and for that, she needed to go to the source. She probably couldn't afford much, and she didn't think she had enough money for both a deposit _and_ living expenses until her next paycheck. But the worst that could happen is that he would say "No" and send her on her merry way in the direction of the bridge. She and the trolls, or whoever it was that classically lived under bridges could party like there's no tomorrow, or at least like tomorrows were in limited supply. But at least, she would have tried.

The consignment shop seemed dark in the gloomy weather, and when Ella pushed the door open, she was greeted with the chime of a bell and the smell of lemony wood polish and old parchment. The smells were surprisingly cozy, and she felt herself ease into the semi-darkness with pleasant anticipation, like a kid who had figured out a way to get up into the attic. The door had been open, but the place looked vacant, no trace of the owner in sight. She let her gaze trail along the eclectic collection of objects, something enchanting about their weird and unexpected juxtapositions. An old clock, the inside mechanism visible through a pane of curved glass next to a mobile of glass unicorns, a delicate vase with a toy wooden snake coiled around it, a pair of hideous wooden puppets, their faces frozen in an expression of abject horror next to a lovely porcelain tea set. The china drew her attention. The exquisite, almost translucent porcelain was an even, milky white, with a light dusting of blue in a floral pattern, but there was something amiss in its loveliness. She stared. With an unpleasant start, which came from that part of her that now lived locked in behind the fence, and that she had less and less access to, she realized there were only five cups. The sixth was missing, and it made her heart constrict painfully, for no apparent reason. Had the cup been broken, she wondered? It was odd, she mused, that something as simple as an absent cup could so upset the intended symmetry of things, and mar their beauty. It was just a cup, of course, but, as part of a tea set, it was no longer a solitary object, meaning nothing but itself and the use one could get out of it. It was intended as part of a greater whole, and once it was gone, its very absence had a kind of uncomfortable presence.

Ella was shaken out of her contemplation by the sound of footsteps, punctuated by the thumps of a cane against wood. She looked up to see the owner of the store emerge from what must have been a back office. In the dull glow of the imitation oil lamps that illuminated the shop he seemed different, but a distinction that was hard to place – same impeccable suit, same silk tie in dark tones, same longish hair of no particular color with a few silver strands framing a sharp face. But there was an almost imperceptible change that made him seem more real and tangible, and that had her heart suddenly racing. She could feel that part of her she kept behind the fence stretch on its tippy-toes, palms against the wood of its cage, one eye spying through the cracks between the boards. She shuddered involuntarily at realizing how autonomous that thing she kept hidden from herself was becoming.

"- Ms French. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The accented voice was almost velvety, and the strange way Gold said "pleasure" suddenly made Ella feel uncomfortably warm. Refusing to be mortified by the fact that her very ears felt incandescent, probably with the color to match, too, Ella gave him a small smile and forced herself to approach the counter. She realized she hadn't come up with a strategy for this conversation, and that was rather unlike her. She had become very good at running through possible conversation scenarios since she'd been out. If that was paranoia, then so be it – if it kept her out of the four walls, she would cultivate it.

She eyed him quickly, trying to read his expression. His face was shuttered, a small smile playing on his lips, but strange ghosts dancing in his eyes. She cleared her throat.

" – Mr Gold, from what I understand you rent most of the apartments in Storybrooke. Is that right?"

He nodded, leaning his elbows on the counter and interlacing his fingers. Despite the apparently more relaxed posture there was a tension in his shoulders, and Ella speculated that if he didn't relax he might shoot off through the roof like a firework. Apparently, his ability to set her on edge was reciprocal. It was strange, this thing between them. Why had the sheriff questioned her about her 'associations'? Had there been something there, in that stretch of blankness her memories refused to fill out? Did they, indeed, have a relationship of some kind, and if so, of what sort? Or did he know something about those weird things she had allegedly done after her supposed fiancé's death? She thought she heard the thing behind the fence mutter curses at her stupidity, but she couldn't quite figure out what the thing was so unhappy about.

" – I do own most residential buildings in the town, although the mayor has a few of her own." His dark eyes were fixed on her, waiting. She drew in a breath, her nose catching a whiff of cologne, a smell like spices undercut with juniper smoke, and took the dive.

" – I find myself in need of a home."

Gold's face did something strange – Ella had the image of a glass mask suddenly hit with a high note, shattering in resonance. Its owner seemed to hold the pieces together through mere force of will, and Ella noticed the skin on his knuckles momentarily turn white. Then the illusion passed, he quickly lowered his eyes to his hands, cleared his throat, and let his palms rest flat on the counter.

" – And what sort of place are you looking for, Ms French?" The voice sounded even quieter than usual.

She considered him, wondering what she had just witnessed.

" – Cheap." She said finally. "I don't have much money yet. You've probably heard the story, so I'll spare you an explanation, but the psych ward doesn't seem to come with a 'make money from home' program."

He stared at her for a second, then his face thawed, and he chuckled. She found herself smiling back, and for a split second, when their gazes locked, the world fell away, she felt the ground shift beneath her feet, and she was airborne. Then the vertigo passed, and she wondered if she had finally, as they say, "lost it" for good.

" – Well, Ms French, may I ask why you won't live with your father?"

She eyed him, suddenly suspicious. They had unwittingly found themselves on thin ice.

" – I think it might be best for now if I lived alone." She was avoiding the whole father issue, and she wasn't sure why, but now wasn't the time to find out.

He nodded. Danger averted, for the moment.

" – I assume, then, that you might have troubles coming up with a deposit?"

She sighed. It was going to boil down to money, wasn't it?

" – This month, yes. I'd be able to pay it next month, I think."

He narrowed his eyes at her, something mischievous playing in their depth. It suddenly struck her that his eyes were the rich reddish brown of tea poured into a white porcelain cup.

" – Well, Ms French, this seems most irregular to me." Her heart sank. He was going to send her packing. She had imagined that whole connection between them, just wishful thinking on the part of some sad, deranged girl, grasping at straws before that final plunge. Troll bridge, here she comes…

" - But, how about a deal?" he continued, voice like honey.

At the word "deal", the boogeyman part of her started a commotion behind its fence, but Ella shut it down mercilessly. They could have their little talk later, her and her "better half." Now she was in the business of procuring a roof.

" – And what would be the terms?" She had intended to sound matter of fact, but when she asked her question she found, to her horror, that a bit of playfulness had crept in. Most irregular, indeed.

Gold pretended to think, even tapping a finger against his lips in a performance of pensiveness.

" – I saw you looking at the tea set, earlier. Do you enjoy tea, Ms French?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. For some reason, the question felt loaded. Finally, she shrugged.

" – Not the kind that looks like I'm pouring boiling water over a dead mouse while holding it by the tail."

He chuckled softly.

" – Ah yes, sometimes our culture of convenience creates truly despicable things, doesn't it? Tea bags, microwave dinners … Next thing you know, someone will bottle love, and sell it at the pharmacy." He moved from behind the counter to stand in front of her. He seemed to have an innate sense of appropriate personal space, because he stood exactly a hair too close for comfort, but not close enough to be rudely invasive. It made Ella feel eerie and unfocused.

" – Would you need a prescription?" she heard herself asking.

He chuckled.

" – I would hope so! In any case, Ms French, back to our deal. How about a real tea one of those afternoons then? We could sit and chat. I suspect you might have… questions. And I have some of my own." She looked up at him, trying to figure out what he would possibly want to ask of her. It probably had something to do with the events around her incarceration. Too bad she had no recollection of them.

" – An afternoon tea in exchange for a deposit on an apartment? That seems hardly an advantageous deal for you."

He shrugged, smiling pleasantly.

" – Let me be the judge of that, Ms French. Trust me, I've made very few bad deals in my life."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

" – I'd hate for you to start with me."

After the words had flown out, she suddenly was struck by their questionable subtext – nothing obvious but yes, most irregular, again. She blushed, flustered. It was official. She was flirting with the man without even intending to. Perhaps the psych ward had been justified, after all.

The pawnbroker cleared his throat, his cheekbones coloring ever so slightly, then it was gone, and he was back to smiling pleasantly. A strange glint had settled in his dark eyes, like a little flame that a sudden gust of wind had brought to life. He extended his hand for her to shake.

" – Do you accept the terms, Ms French? An afternoon tea in exchange for a month's extension on your deposit?"

They clasped hands, his hand warm and dry around hers. She squeezed his palm firmly. They stood there, hands locked in a handshake that neither seemed willing to break.

" – I believe we have a deal" she forced herself to say, getting a bit lost in his eyes, that feeling of vertigo returning. For a split second, Ella had the absurd thought that he would step closer and sweep her off her feet and into his arms. Her body seemed to remember what that would feel like, and she absentmindedly noted that her breathing had gotten shallow and ragged. But before she could give her strange symptoms a serious thought, he released her hand, gesturing smoothly towards the door.

" – In that case, Ms French, why don't we go see a few places that you might find suitable. Lets arrange a time for our tea on the way, shall we?"

He grabbed a leather-bound ledger with some photocopied brochures, and they left the store together, him holding the door for her before locking it behind them.

As the two figures walked away side by side, a young woman with flowing brown hair and a cheap beige raincoat, and a middle-aged man with an expensive suit and a limp, the car with tinted windows that had sat across from the pawnshop since the morning started with a quiet rumble. It slowly drove down the street, in the opposite direction, then picked up its pace and disappeared behind a turn.

**As always, thanks for your feedback and reviews. The next few chapters will tackle on how the curse works a bit more head-on. **


	5. Chapter 5: Through a Glass, Darkly

**As always, folks, thanks for your feedback and reviews. As promised, here are some provocations on how the curse works. This might go wildly AU by the next episode, in which case – apologies, and I hope that won't discourage you from reading on.**

**Now, also featuring a couple of (smallish) Easter eggs. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 5**

**In which Dr Hopper reflects on a secret, Mary Margaret finds a book, and the past is not what it seems.**

******- "You must take your opponent into a deep dark forest where 2+2=5,  
and the path leading out is only wide enough for one"  
(Mikhail Tal)**

Dr Hopper had a secret. It wasn't the world's most earth-shattering secret, nor was it even a particularly dark or ominous one. It might not even be all that embarrassing, were it to enter public knowledge, but Archie Hopper preferred to keep the status quo. He rarely thought about it himself, but as he transcribed the notes he had taken during his session with Ella French that afternoon, his "little problem" came into plain view once again. Perhaps, Dr Hopper reflected, it wasn't a problem at all. He was, quite possibly, looking at it altogether wrong. Perhaps, it was, ultimately, his strength.

The case file was thick with hand-written pages and inserts, most of them dated to five years ago. He was very pleased to make its unexpected discovery in the filing cabinet, neatly occupying its allotted slot in the Fs, and was even more pleased to realize that it contained a wealth of details. Ms French's case was a fascinating one, and he was excited to have the opportunity to study it. It would perhaps even make for an excellent article or two, if he ever got around to bringing his research to publishable form.

He scolded himself for the cynicism - his primary purpose was therapy, not to make an academic name for himself. He was momentarily overcome with sympathy for the young woman – how lost she must feel, thrust into a town she barely recognized, with, at best, patchy memories. Perhaps, the young Henry was onto something – even if his child consciousness had to give the insight a fantastical turn, his fairytale talk described a process that Dr Hopper was himself very interested in. After all, were not connections between people the anchor that kept our personalities stable? Did others not perpetually remind us of who we were, and vice versa? Would our sense of self come suddenly adrift, an amorphous entity with no definitions or boundaries, pliable like putty, without others to push back against it and hold it in place? Regina's boy was struggling precisely with that problem – at an age when his personality was solidifying, taking on the contours of adulthood, he was grappling with the impossibility of being something radically other than Henry Mills. He was intuiting, very cleverly in fact, that in order for people's personalities to change – for them to become other than they were – they had to become part of an entirely different world, different rules of engagement, and a different set of relations to each other. While adaptive adjustments to one's circumstances were certainly possible, anything beyond that would be … well, an escape into madness. Like the creation of an alter-ego, for instance.

But Ella's case also brought into focus something that had become a source of mild consternation for Dr Hopper over the years – despite the psychological richness and academic potential of Ella French's condition, up until the moment Regina Mills had placed a phone call with him to schedule an appointment on behalf of his new patient, he had not remembered that Ms French existed. Certainly, once he was reminded of her, his brain helpfully provided her background story, and he was infinitely nonplused at how he could have forgotten such a fascinating case. Based on the file, she had made quite a splash in the local news, and as he leafed through the newspaper clippings, complete with photographs of the "crime scenes" – or whatever her self-expressions were labeled in legalese – more and more details came back to him, falling into place. He regretted the time wasted. He should have started working with her as soon as he had found out, not simply filed her away and, well, forgotten.

And that was Archie Hopper's secret. He believed that his was a peculiar deviation from the typical memory inhibition mechanism. In most people, various memory inhibition processes served as a kind of filter, allowing one to disremember irrelevant or superfluous information – a process that guaranteed normal functioning in everyday life. His mind, however, did not seem to work that way. Whether it was a neurological peculiarity or a cognitive one, he wasn't sure. In practice, he could remember the minutest details about his clients – dates, life events, social relations, traumatic experiences, favorite breakfast cereal, phobias. Conversely, people weren't people until they had a file – _were_ a file. Unless he could convert others into "file" format, they simply fell off his radar. He could forget about them entirely, and then forget he had forgotten. Certainly, they could be conjured up, following the appropriate stimulus, from the recesses of the beehive that was his brain, and like a computer it would dredge up a perfect replica of all the information he knew about them. But that was just it – a computer could not think for itself, it was not self-willed, and therefore could not choose to access certain information. It needed that external push, someone to point it in the right direction. A strange trade-off, then: perfect memory in exchange for a share of one's autonomy.

It was no surprise, then, that Archie Hopper detested computers with a passion, refused to buy one, and wrote everything out by hand.

What happens if you forgot something, and then forgot the very act of forgetting? It didn't matter if the information was still there, recorded – it was still hopelessly out of reach. Ella French's file was case in point. The information _had_ been there, in cold storage, as it were, and as he perused the file, his mind filled in the blanks with more details, classified events, and formed a bigger picture. By the time he was done, it was both shocking to him that he had never thought back to the case – again, it wasn't that he had forgotten it, exactly – as in, erased it - it had always been there, stashed away in his head, had he cared to reach for it. He simply… he simply had no occasion or motivation to do so. And that was fascinating, and frustrating in itself. Had it not been for Regina's message, he wouldn't have thought to look, let alone remember. That wasn't at all like him. He was a curious man, and a moderately successful therapist. And Ella French was the kind of dream case any therapist worth his salt would love to get his hands on.

Of course, by all appearances, as soon as it became clear that Ms French might have been involved in something a little more sinister than simply acting out her grief, they had locked her away. How had he gotten the file? She had never been his client… He thought hard, although the memory was foggy at first. Ah, of course, Dr Whale must have brought it by for Archie's examination after the girl had been put under observation. Well, yes, indeed he had! Archie clearly remembered being outraged at the man's offhanded inappropriate comment about Ruby – something about her skirt and public safety.

But before he could really sink his teeth into the case, they had institutionalized Ella, and he had no occasion to revisit it. He wondered if Regina had struck a deal with the DA. Then again, the police didn't seem to have any conclusive evidence. The boy's death had looked like an accident, with nothing to suggest otherwise, except Ella's last "art piece." But then again, the evidence of her involvement with that was circumstantial.

Well, he wasn't a cop, or a profiler. He was a shrink, as they said, so he would stick to doing his job and shrinking heads, and leave the other stuff to Sheriff Swan.

The thought brought his mind back full circle to his chat with Ella. He scanned his notes for new insights:

_Ella French, female, Caucasian, age – mid to late twenties [look up DOB, illegible on file, circa '82-83 maybe?] Physical appearance: slight built, average height, hair – brown; eyes – blue; what appears to be slightly underweight. Complaints: insomnia (wakefulness at 3-5am, terminal insomnia? Other kind of sleep disorder?) No history of substance abuse, no history of reported sexual abuse _

_[Possible high stress levels associated with financial precariousness, social stigma.]_

He skipped over the diagnosis he had copied from her medical records – he had gone over it several times and had practically memorized it before the interview. He was more interested in his impressions of their talk.

"_Ella is lucid, intelligent, and responds well to social cues. Has a soft-spoken and humorous manner (uses humor as deflection strategy for situations she feels uncomfortable with?) Has a good recollection of her life before the psychotic episode [but, stunted emotional response? Childhood trauma?] _

_The psychotic episode is characterized by a period of amnesia, spanning several months prior to the onset of the events, and perhaps a month after. Claims no recollection at all of what happened during that time. Amnesia extends to significant others in the subject's life, notably the subject's deceased fiancé. Subject exhibits signs of trauma-related memory loss, some aspects point to potential for delayed recall, previous diagnosis of dissociative disorder - look for symptoms of relapse into dissociative strategies(!). Previous diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia [no apparent symptoms, says she has been taking medication. What are the meds for? Insomnia/emotional unresponsiveness to memories a side-effect? Find out what medication she uses – says she doesn't remember the name.] _

_Unclear if amnesia is symptomatic of DID in this case._

_[Check Gus Tonner – Ask Mills for file, check with Sydney, he covered the death[?]. Check with Swan – Graham's files/police record? Mary Margaret = Access to High School records/ yearbooks maybe?]_

He should have followed the media coverage of the drowning more closely. Some details were included in the file, but his knowledge of Gus Tonner was insufficient. He was another one of those people he hadn't thought of in years, and when prompted, he realized he only knew him as the high school jock, an uncomplicated young man, by all accounts. But without that crucial piece of knowledge, Ella's case became a bit of a mystery.

_[Check "tableaus" – referential? Sequential? Narrative structure? Tableau #7 – "Rose(?)" – blood?/other substances? – ID-ed? Talk to Swan]_

_Emotional response to certain significant others also inhibited – relationship with father unclear. Father responsible for institutionalization – resentment/fear or recurrence/abandonment issues? [Abuse? Unlikely, but something there. Work on that.]_

_Other significant social relations mentioned: Ruby, Leroy; ambivalent about Regina Mills, Emma Swan, warm towards Henry Mills. Strange reaction to Gold – check on pre-existing connection there. Denies prior associations, but Mills mentioned a rumor right around the time of inst. commitment, or shortly prior. What is the relation w/ Gold [Employer? Lover? Confidante? Other? = Mills seems to hint that love affair. With GT then = love triangle/infidelity? Unclear, subject claims no memory of relationship with G or GT. "Repression"?] = Maybe __talk to Gold*_, Moe French (father), Ruby? [*Talk to Gold after – talk to others first, G unlikely to admit association if anything compromising for him.] Getting around amnesia (!), see who else might remember. 

_No other associations, knows _of _many of the people in town, but no relationship._

That was the end of the notes. Dr Hopper inserted the hand-written page behind the others, closed the folder, and got up. He would take his afternoon walk – perhaps the fresh air would clear his head, and shed some clarity on the convoluted affair. He looked out of the window. The storm that had been raging for the last two days had let up, the sky still overcast, but no longer pouring rain. A thick fog was rolling through the town, softening the contours of buildings and hiding the rooftops, making Storybrooke appear ghostly. Dr Hopper shivered slightly, suddenly longing for scorching sunshine and tall fragrant grasses, in the peak of summer.

He picked up his umbrella on his way out the door, and exited his apartment, heading towards the school. With any luck, he would catch Mary Margaret before she left for the day. No need to waste any more time than he already had with this case.

Mary Margaret stood by the tall metal bookshelf in the teachers' lounge, tracing the book bindings with her finger. Sometimes she liked to go through the yearbooks – looking at how people had changed, as they grew older. It was odd and sort of funny how most people didn't look like themselves at all when they were children. Then, at some point, they began to look almost exactly like themselves.

Dr Hopper stood a few steps back, a slightly nonplused smile on his face, his glasses fogging furiously from the change of temperature and humidity inside. She found the year she had been looking for. She tried to recall – almost ten years ago, was it? Where had she been at the time? She thought back – she didn't remember Ella and Gus very clearly, although they would be very close in years to her own graduation class. She had already finished high school by the time they were seniors, and was taking online college classes, eventually finishing an elementary school-teacher certification course. She felt a heaviness at the back of her head, a telltale sign of an oncoming migraine, so she grabbed the appropriate yearbook off the shelf decisively and turned to the therapist.

" – Ms Blanchard, is this the one?" Archie Hopper looked at her expectantly.

She smiled, relieved that the headache was receding.

" – I think so. Why don't we go check." They sat at the table, yearbook between them. Its binding was crisp and creaked pleasantly when it was opened, and the pages still held the acidic smell of ink and laminate. Mary Margaret noticed absentmindedly that the yearbook got little use – there was no discoloration along the thumbing side of the pages, as if it was fresh from the printer. That was impossible, of course, so she dismissed the thought, thumbing to the index.

" – Lets see…" She searched the list of names, and flipped to the corresponding pages, holding a stack of pages between thumb and forefinger to bookmark both spots. Archie leaned closer, and she pushed the book towards him.

" – Ella French…" he muttered, skimming to the blurb underneath the black and white photograph of the young woman, her curly hair pinned high and spilling around her face in large bouncy ringlets, her bare neck and shoulders framed elegantly by a dark velvet wrap. The text underneath contained no personal messages, none of the typical inside-joke yammer that adolescents liked to memorialize for posterity. It was, instead, composed of two quotations, lined side by side, as if in dialogue.

In the right column, in normal font:

"Friends we shall never be, you know that yourself. Whether we shall be the happiest or the most wretched of people—that is in your hands."

In the right column, in cursive:

"_Life swarms with innocent monsters." _

The school teacher and therapist exchanged a puzzled look.

"- I wonder why there's no reference" Archie ventured. Mary Margaret was creasing her forehead, then remembered something and beamed up at him.

" – Oh, I know this one" she cried excitedly, tapping her finger on the left side column. "It's from Leo Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_. It's taken from the passage where Vronsky gets Anna to confess that she is in love with him too. It's very dramatic, he'd been pursuing her for months by that point, despite the fact that she's married, showing up in all the social circles she frequents, and even following her from Moscow to St Petersburg. And she finally admits…"

" – Wow, Ms Blachard. You could identify that from just a few lines?"

Mary Margaret nodded, a rueful smile playing on her lips.

" – I just recently re-read it."

Archie reflected on the significance of the quote.

"- Isn't the novel a rather tragic story about a married woman who has an affair, her lover eventually tires of her, and it all comes to a disastrous end?"

" – Well, there are more things involved. Tolstoy's novels always have multiple parallel stories about different characters, but yes, that's the gist of it, at least the most famous part of the book. I think the point of the book, though, is that Anna's love enters into conflict with her desire for honesty, and that's what eventually destroys her."

Archie considered this information. What was the significance of the quote, he wondered, and why would a young girl, barely an adult, reference such heavy themes as her final message in her senior yearbook? The quote seemed almost like a provocation, especially when read next to the other one about innocent monsters. Is that how she viewed herself, an innocent monster? As if the second quote hinted at an answer to the question a reader might have after seeing the first one. He looked at Mary Margaret for help, but the young woman only shrugged in puzzlement.

" – I don't know the second one." He shook his head in agreement. "Sort of intense, isn't it? Maybe she was going through a troubled phase?"

Archie nodded. It certainly sounded like it.

" – Lets see what Gus Tonner's page is like." The picture of the young man was ordinary, although instead of smiling, he sported a scowl that aimed for heroic but fell somewhat short. Underneath, the blurb was a typical yearbook entry, irrelevant quips mostly directed to the football team and its members. At the very end Archie read: "To Ella: You're so beautiful and I'm the luckiest man on earth to have you. Love you, babe."

Mary Margaret made a slightly disgusted sound.

" – That's it? It seems so…" she glanced at Archie, her expression confused. "So…"

" – Well, it's not particularly original…"

" – No!" she cried out. "It's really not. It's kind of awful and flat, and…"

"—We mustn't judge though, perhaps the sentiment is sincere. But in comparison to hers, it seems a bit…" he wrinkled his brow, and smiled apologetically.

" – Dull?"

" – That's it. I just can't quite imagine them as a couple, but I suppose odder things have happened."

Mary Margaret looked at the page, remaining quiet for a moment.

" – You are assuming that her quote was meant for him."

**Voila. I am happy to take prompts (reviews/or pms) and will fit them in as long as they don't veer off too much from the bigger story arch. **


	6. Chapter 6: Wishing Well

**Here's another chapter, sadly shorter than usual since real life is getting in the way of procrastination ;) On the upside, I'll have the continuation up very soon. As always, thank you for your reviews and comments, and always happy to get feedback - it keeps me writing :-D Enjoy!**

**Chapter 6**

**In which Ella discovers that trouble**** comes in pairs****, and decides to take the bull by the horns.**

**"You must not let your opponent know how you feel.****" - Alexander Kotov**

Ella rushed out of a clammy, suffocating darkness, like a diver frantically trying to reach the surface before her breath ran out, and her lungs filled with water in that one final instinctive scream. She flung her eyes open and sat up straight in her bed, gasping, cold sweat making her shirt stick between her shoulder blades. She frantically grabbed for the reading light on her night stand. The alarm clock read 4:17 am.

She pushed the cheap polyester blanket aside, and stood up, her bare toes scraping unpleasantly on the unpolished wooden floor, straining to remember what she was doing in the small studio with its slanted roof and austere furniture. The place was minuscule – a square room with a kitchenette and bathroom tucked into a corner. During the day, the sun filtered through the awning window, and, entangled in the greenery of a large oak whose branches ran along the building's façade, colored the walls in shades of gold with a hint of emerald. The sunlight made the place look lovely, and even the rustic furniture seemed to glow a warm ocher. Now she barely recognized it, as if the apartment had an entirely different personality by night – the reading light had a reddish hue, dying the room a rusty red, the color of crushed clay or dried blood, and pulled long dark shadows out from underneath the furniture.

Ella narrowed her eyes at the hostile-looking darkness outside her window. The window pane threw her reflection back at her, a sickly pale girl in an old worn T-shirt, with disheveled hair and hollow eyes, grabbing at her elbows as if that would hold her together. She refused to take the reflection at face-value. She would shower and dress, and, once she felt human again, she would deal with the nightmare. Strands of the dream clung to her consciousness like cobwebs, and she wanted to shake her head until it clicked into place – her mind felt dislocated, achy and out of phase with itself.

Every morning for the last week she would wake up a little after 4, more often than not at exactly 4:17. At first, she thought that something woke her up – the mice, the drip from the faucet, the rattling of the branches against the wall. Yet, as her consciousness came crashing back, night after night, she realized that what tore her out of sleep was a recurrent nightmare. Come to think of it, that wasn't quite right – what tore her out of the _nightmare_ was the sheer force of her will, the categorical refusal to feel what the dream tried to dictate. She would not let it suck her into its undertow, and so, night after night, she struggled against the pull to reach the surface, waking up in a choked panic. The dream even managed to cow the boogeyman behind the fence that divided the sane part of her mind from the insane one – she sometimes even found herself looking for that part of her, mentally walking along the planks that made up its enclosure, tracing imaginary fingers along the wood until she felt/heard a tentative stir. Her monster in the attic was skittish about the nightmare too, and that made things infinitely worse, somehow.

If she was going to be perfectly honest with herself, Ella reflected, as she stood under the scalding water of the shower, the inarticulate horror of her nightmare pressed on her mind more strongly with each passing day. She was hoping that it might be the stress – in the last 48 hours, her life had taken a sudden turn for the worst, or at least for the more complicated.

It started small, as such things tended to. At first, she had noted that Emma Swan had suddenly become a regular at the diner, as had Gold. The latter arrived every morning, at 7:15 sharp, to drink coffee, eat breakfast, and read the newspaper. At first, Ruby would stare "meaningfully" at Ella, until, fed up, Ella inquired whether the redhead was trying to give her the Evil Eye. Then, a day or two later, Emma followed, coming in at 7:20, going through an entire pitcher of coffee by herself, and pretending to take notes on her legal pad. Pretending, Ella thought, because most of Sheriff Swan's mental efforts were rather obviously occupied with watching Gold, and herself, whenever she came out of the kitchen. She didn't know why she had become such a sudden object of fascination for the sheriff, but whatever it was, she liked it less and less. In any case, it was developing into a routine: Gold would sit pretending not to watch Ella, the sheriff would sit pretending not to watch Gold, and Ella would go about her business, pretending not to notice either, or, for that matter, Ruby's irritating eye gymnastics.

If the silent choreography between the sheriff and the pawnbroker wasn't enough, there was the additional joy of watching David and Mary Margaret's collective wallowing, as they came in separately, but inevitably at times when they would overlap, sat at different tables, and pretended with all their might to ignore each other. Ella was beginning to wonder if they simply needed an audience for their star-crossed , Wednesday Gold didn't show, although the sheriff still came for her gallon of coffee. Ella refused to feel disappointed. Thursday both were in absentia, and Ella was relieved, albeit briefly.

Unpleasant events, as it turned out, were pack animals. When one came, others followed. Thus, when Ruby, concern distorting her usually carefree features, brought the copy of that morning's Daily Mirror and put it down in front of Ella, between the cutting board and the mixer, Ella was almost not surprised at the headline.

"**The Wishing Well Murder****"**

Underneath the caption read:

"**New evidence in police investigation gone cold five years ago suggests foul play****!"**

She skimmed the article, hands suddenly icy against the knife handle she was clutching. She forced her fingers to relax the death grip. Her eyes lingered on the grainy photograph of someone she was becoming unpleasantly familiar with – Gus Tonner, his jaw jutting out further than usual, was decked out in a tux, his dark hair in what looked suspiciously like a bouffant, eyes fixed on an invisible horizon. She read the short column.

"Local police were alerted to the possibility that the death of Storybrooke resident Gus Tonner, 24 had been the result of foul play, and not a tragic accident. Though the case had been closed for five years, our sources tell us that it is being reopened following a direct order from the DA. To remind our readers, Gus Tonner, former football star and upstanding member of the community was found drowned in the Wishing Well off the town's western perimeter. Mr Tonner's body was discovered by high-school students who were camping in the neighboring woods. They reported hearing a commotion coming from the direction of the well and came uponthe body shortly afterwards. Although, according to the coroner, Mr Toner's body had been pulled out of the well quickly, he had suffered extended oxygen deprivation, and was in a coma by the time he was rushed to the hospital. Mr Tonner passed away shortly after 4 am the next day without waking up. According to the coroner's report, Mr Tonner's blood alcohol content suggested intoxication at the time of death. While Mr Tonner had sustained a head injury that had likely made him lose consciousness, it had up until now been assumed that it was caused by his fall. Although the law enforcement authorities declined to comment, our sources say that an object used in the hypothetical assault against Mr Tonner had been recovered. The police are investigating."

Ella felt vaguely sorry for the guy, although she was perplexed at how he had managed to meet such a preposterous end - getting drunk and falling into a well. If he did, in fact, have "help", it gave the whole affair a much more disturbing edge, of course. She looked for grief somewhere inside her mind and found none. Her monster also remained stoicallyunimpressed behind its fence. She wondered if Sheriff Swan's new acute interest in her had something to do with the investigation. Now that the death was no longer an accident, it changed the rules of the game, she supposed. If only she could remember any of it. But her mind remained stubbornly blank.

She got ready for work and left her apartment, walking briskly towards the diner. The feeling of being followed or watched flared up again, as it always did at those early hours of the morning, with nightmares clinging to her heels. It had abated the first few days she was at her new place, but then resumed, as if her invisible follower had adjusted to the change of address. She was becoming good at ignoring it. It didn't seem to do much, so why not let it watch if it wanted.

It took her several attempts before she managed to unlock the diner entrance. She felt irritable and distracted, uncomfortable in her skin, and, weirdly dissatisfied with her looks. As the light came on, she caught her reflection in the window, and tried to readjust her hair, which refused to stay in place and bounced about her face in unruly tentacles. Then again, maybe it could pass for intentional – a kind of Medusa chic. She chuckled at herself. If you tried to lie to yourself, would your nose grow backward? She would do herself the courtesy of being honest, at least inwardly - the sudden aesthetic concerns were directly related to a certain tea appointment with a certain pawnbroker that afternoon. They had said 5pm, Friday. And Friday it was. She threatened the butterflies fluttering in her stomach with a grim visual of pins and glass display cases. It seemed to work, they fell back in line.

The door opened, and she almost jumped out of her skin, pivoting briskly on her heels.

" - Well, someone's on edge today." Ruby strolled into the diner, beginning her usual morning bustle to get the place ready to open. "Is it that article, from yesterday?" She asked sympathetically.

Ella smiled and shook her head.

" - Oh. No, I think I just slept poorly."

Ruby nodded.

" - Don't listen to that crap, by the way." She added, her attention studiously focused on the coffee machine. "I know you had nothing to do with it."

Ella frowned, confused.

"- Don't listen to what? Nothing to do with what?"

Ruby looked a little guilty, giving her an unusually sheepish smile.

" - Oh, uh... that stupid Daily Mirror rag. It's sensationalist bull, anyway."

Ella wasn't fooled.

" - It hadn't said anything about me."

Ruby looked up at her, wringing her apron with long red-clawed fingers, with the expression of a person who had just realized she had inadvertently spilled the proverbial beans.

" - It's just the people in this town" she sighed finally. "They're bored, have nothing better to do than gossip."

" - What have you heard?" A heaviness had settled around Ella's heart, and she suddenly felt very tired.

" - Nothing. Well, nothing much. It's those stupid nuns. You'd think that gossiping would be on their "Not to do" list, but no! Came in here yesterday - you'd gone already - with that awful mother superior, or whoever she is. And that woman went on and on about the article, how she hoped they would catch whoever did it. She kept saying how the police weren't doing their job, and how they should interrogate those closest to the victim." Ruby looked at her apologetically. Ella thought the redhead was leaving something out.

" - Now, out with it." she sighed. "What else did they say. I can tell you're trying to spare my feelings - don't."

Ruby bit at her lower lip.

" - Oh, you know. Being all conspiratorial, and... oh, and I don't even know what they were trying to hint at, I think their Head Honcho was talking out of her ass and fishing for info, thinking I'd tell her anything. Bunch of uptight harpies, right? I told them how ridiculous they were being, and if they wanted to gossip, they could take it somewhere else." She laughed. "Oh well. Nuns are the worst tippers anyway."

Ella had a pretty good idea by now what the "Head Honcho" was likely fishing for – it'd be the same thing everyone else seemed to be so curious about. The pawnbroker's words had turned out to beprophetic - she did have some questions for him after all.

" - Well, whatever the case may be, I certainly had nothing to do with ...Gus's death" she concluded, sounding more confident than she felt. When she thought about her past life, her memory came in four parts. The first part stretched until her last year of high school. It was bland, and cardboard like, but it was, at least, precise. It was a story told about a girl living with her father in a small town. Then there was a period - a long period, almost five years, where it felt like the memory was stuck looping on itself, like a broken record. It also had a strange property, when she tried to focus her mind directly on it, it would slip away. She could only intuit it with her mind's peripheral vision, gazing obliquely along its edges until she was able to pick out its contour. Then a long, complete, void, followed by the four green walls and the fog of medication. Whenever she could, she tried to hide that "in-between" period from other people - not the one that was utterly blank, but the one that should have contained important things but didn't. The one that seemed like it had been lived by someone else, while she wasn't watching. Both Gold and Gus Tonner apparently belonged in it, but she couldn't locate either.

But then, there was the monster in the attic. It didn't believe the memories, she thought, but the alternatives it offered were so odd and alien that she stopped listening to it almost as soon as her consciousness had cleared up after the hospital. Now all it did was conjure occasional images at her, but more often than not it simply threw inarticulate tantrums - it did not seem able to communicate verbally. Her "better half" obviously thought it knew something, but it was incapable of saying what it knew, and even if it had, she wasn't sure she was prepared to listen.

" - Right! And so what if he took a shine to you since you've been out?" Ruby was going on about something, and Ella realized she got lost in her thoughts, so she forced herself to focus.

" - I'm sorry, what?"

" - Oh don't give me that innocent look. You know it as well as I do." Ruby, now on firmer ground , looked more jovial. "Can't say I blame him. You're kinda hot with that whole 'I'm broken and need saving' aura. I'd go for it too, if I went that way." Ruby beamed her best predatory grin. Ella snorted inelegantly and shook her head, some of her bad mood lifting, and deduced that the redhead was again speculating about the reason behind the pawnbroker's systematic visitations of the diner.

" - Why, thank you, Ruby. I am sure I will make a fine addition to his extensive collection of exquisite things that don't work quite right. Besides, I think he comes by for the coffee."

" - Oh, sure he does..."

Ruby gave her the "meaningful eyeball", and Ella folded her fingers into a curse-warding gesture, before winking at the redhead and walking off to start prepping in the kitchen. Safely out of sight, she let herself exhale slowly, closing her eyes. She shuddered involuntarily. It felt like a net she couldn't quite see was slowly tightening around her. With a new feeling of urgency, she rummaged through her memories, trying to dredge up whatever was buried in the blank zones, but came up empty-handed.

It was time to begin her own investigation, and she knew exactly where to start. Or rather, who to start with.

**Thanks for reading! Next chapter will involve that aforementioned tea, but also a speculation on what the Beauty & the Beast story (in its different variants) is actually about.**


	7. Chapter 7: Little Crimson Flower

**(Disclaimer, as usual - I own nothing of ouat)**

**Folks, this is more like 2 chapters, and they are (mostly) frivolous fluff. Worry not, the doom and gloom and ominous scheming will be back in no time, but it's the middle of the week and I think everyone, myself included, can use a bit of warm fuzzies.  
As always, thank you so much for reviewing and sending feedback, please keep at it ;)**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 7**

**In which Ella finds a red flower, drinks tea, and loses her nerve**

**"Drawn games are sometimes more scintillating than any conclusive contest." - Savielly Tartakower**

Ella worked until noon, skipping the break, the rhythm eventually hypnotizing her mind into a kind of tranquility. She emerged out of the kitchen almost content, her cheeks flushed with the heat and steam. She was about to hang her apron when she heard a "Psst." She looked around, her eyes finally identifying the source of the mysterious sibilants as Henry, Emma's son. He was waving at her conspiratorially from the depth of a booth. She went to sit across from him.

" - Why, hello, Henry. What brings you to our modest establishment?" Ella found herself slipping easily into the playfully affected tone - the boy seemed to enjoy the bookish register.

" - I have something for you" he said brightly, and pushed a large tome across the table. Ella often saw him logging an enormous book around, but this was something different. It was much smaller, and appeared well-used, the hardcover worn to a sheen. The spine sporting a white tag with some numbers - a library book, she concluded.

" - You shouldn't give your library books to strangers, you know?" she scolded, but he shook his head.

" - It was in the donation bin when they were getting rid of some old stuff they didn't want anymore. And I'm not giving it to you, I'm letting you borrow it."

Ella read the embossed title on the pine-green cover, the gold paint inlay that used to color the letters faded to almost nothing. It read "Magical Tales from Around the World." She lifted her eyebrows at the boy.

" - It's for a project for Dr Hopper." There was something sly about Henry's expression, but she let it go. "He said we'd be working with "archetypes" so he asked me to find three fairytale characters that I wanted to think about - it's about figuring out what each character stands for."

" – And what does it have to do with me?" Ella smiled.

" - Easy. I know what "archetypes" most people in Storybrooke are, but I don't yet know who you'd be, so I was hoping you'd read the book and tell me which stories you like. Dr Hopper says it would be productive for me if we worked with a new... huh... set of characters."

" – And what if I turn out to be part of the old set? Maybe you already know what "archetype" I am?" she teased.

" – Not a chance" said the boy, suddenly solemn. "Please?" He made a beseeching moue, and Ella giggled, then nodded.

" - Ok."

" - Really? You'll do it?" The boy's delight was infectious, and she laughed.

" - Sure, it sounds fun, actually. So what's required of me?"

" - Just read the book, and tell me which stories stuck with you?"

She nodded. Henry extended his hand, and they shook on it. Then the boy slung his backpack over his shoulder and ran off with a final brilliant grin in her direction.

Ella was intrigued. She leafed through to the table of contents. She had several hours to kill before five, so she could afford losing herself in a book. It felt like an unusual luxury. The day was unexpectedly warm, and she decided she could sit on the outside terrace and read for a few hours. Smiling at the prospects, she tucked the book under her arm, said goodbye to Ruby and headed out.

She went home to change and eat lunch, donning a blue sundress, a cardigan and a pair of flats, the closest her clothes came to dressy. On the way back to the diner's terrace she even managed to convince herself that the change of clothing was performed solely on account of the gorgeous weather. She found a secluded table at the corner of the patio, and sat with the book in her lap. To her delight, it was illustrated, each picture rendered in a different style, depending on the area of the world where it was from.

She noted that it did not contain all that many stories - what it did have were variations on a few "classics" that had traveled and absorbed the local flavors of their new homes. There was also an editor's preface to every tale, describing how the story had evolved over the centuries of its retelling.

As she flipped through the pages, trying to decide whether she should start from the beginning, her attention was caught by a single illustration, the image of a glowing red flower against a dark background. "The Little Scarlet Flower" the title read. The story was an Eastern European rendition on the famous Beauty and the Beast theme. Strangely captivated by the flower - not a rose exactly, she thought, but more like a hybrid between a lotus and a tiger lily - Ella decided that it was as good a place to start as any.

The language was odd, a translation that gave the English text an exotic cadence. The story was unexpectedly dark, with a kind of absurd edge to it, even though, according to the editor's preface, it contained almost identical plot twists to the better known French version. A few details were unexpectedly bothersome. First, the father of the young girl had struck a deal with the beast – his life in exchange for his daughter's. The monster assured the man that no harm would come to her, as he admitted to being lonely and in need of a companion. Once the girl took her father's place, the beast had mostly remained invisible. At first, fiery letters on the wall were his only means of communicating. Eventually, she convinced him to speak to her in his own voice, and forced herself to not be frightened of it, despite the monster's inhuman speech.

They spoke of many things, incessantly, as the oldest and dearest of friends, until she wanted more, and asked to see what he looked like. Despite his original refusal, she eventually wore him down: after all, he could refuse her nothing. Although the initial fright caused her to lose consciousness, she squished the fear and, little by little, had come to accept his heinous appearance. Then she forgot that it was meant to be heinous in the first place.

When she got news that her father was on his death bed, the monster let her go, on the condition that she would return in three days lest he dies of a broken heart. She accepted, but her sisters had indeed been jealous of the wealth at her disposal. More importantly, they were jealous of her unexpected happiness at the hands of her captor. Rather than convince her to stay, as they did in the French telling, they had set all the clocks back an hour. The girl, however, had been so impatient to be reunited with her beast that she left an hour early, eager to return to his castle as one would to a lover's side. Through the sisters' trickery, she had been a few minutes late, and she ran through the castle, calling out to him, only to find his inanimate body prostrate, clutching the scarlet flower that he had come to associate with her in his dead claws. She cried over the body, confessing her love and beseeching him to wake and take her as his bride, words that had the unexpected effect of breaking his curse. Not only did the monster revive, but was transformed into a handsome prince.

That's where the story got weird, however. Upon seeing his beloved, the prince declared: "You have come to love me in my beastly form, for my soul and my love for you. May you also love me as I am now, in my human form, and be my bride." If that final incantation wasn't puzzling enough, the tale ended with an additional grim detail that the heroine had been the twelfth woman to be the beast's guest (or prisoner), but all the others had failed to love him.

She wondered what he had done with them.

Ella suddenly became aware of her "better-half." It had slinked itself forward and was now crouched close to her normal consciousness, all attention directed towards the pages. When she noticed it, the thing retreated into the murky depths behind its fence, radiating anxiety and a kind of soul-sucking sorrow. She wasn't sure what it was so upset about, so she let it sulk.

It was almost time to go, but she clutched the book to her chest, her mind buzzing obsessively around the final words in the tale, the prince's exhortation. There was some crucial secret in the way he had phrased his request, but it remained just outside of her grasp.

She heard the clock strike five and hurried towards the pawnshop.

* * *

The store greeted her with the usual mix of smells – wood polish, old parchment, a trace of spices and burning juniper.

"— Ah, Ms French. You have not reneged on our little agreement, I see."

Gold emerged from the back of the store, and hesitated in the door frame, his eyes traveling briefly to her blue sundress, then back to her face.

" – Blue becomes you." His smile reached his eyes, and seemed to set up camp there. "What's the occasion?"

Ella squinted at him with mock disapproval. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought that the pawnbroker was teasing her. Or fishing for a compliment.

" – Lovely weather we're having lately" she retorted by way of an explanation, doing a half-turn towards the entrance. Something mischievous had crept into her tone and before she could stuff it back to whatever hole it had crawled from, it was already in his court.

" - Lovely indeed" Gold parried, without diverting his eyes from her, displaying a profound lack of interest for the vicissitudes of Maine's climate conditions. "But where are my manners? Please, come in." He gestured with a flourish towards his office and Ella, for no discernible reason, felt compelled to do a mock curtsey in response to his slight bow.

This would not end well, she thought, absurdly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She followed him through the narrow room, noticing the shelves lined with miscellaneous clutter, and the large oak desk littered with papers and what looked like old maps. Gold disappeared behind a bookshelf that jutted out from the wall, in an L shape, and as she made her way after him, Ella discovered that the shelf hid an alcove with a round coffee table and two plush chairs. The consignment store, much like Volkswagen Beetles and women's purses had no use for the normal laws of physics, and was significantly larger on the inside than the outside. On the coffee table sat the white teapot she had encountered previously, two cups, a small pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a bowl of chocolate dipped almonds.

Gold gestured towards one of the chairs, and she settled against the soft red velvet of the cushions. She realized she was still clutching the book of fairy tales, so she lodged it against the armrest.

In the meantime, her host occupied the opposite seat, and poured tea into both cups.

" – Milk? Sugar?" She shook her head. He handed her a cup full of fragrant liquid, fingertips brushing lightly against hers, and Ella's heart decided that this was the perfect occasion to practice triple backflips.

A not altogether uncomfortable silence settled over them, as they watched each other, Gold leaning against the back of his chair, a slight smile on his lips, and Ella sitting very straight at the edge of her seat with her hands wrapped around the cup in her lap. She noticed that his cup was chipped, and that he ran his thumb absentmindedly against the jagged rim. She was somewhat perplexed to notice that each time the thumb passed over the small indent in the porcelain, her breath caught a little.

Someone had to say something, so after several unsuccessful attempts at mobilizing her increasingly scattered wits, Ella finally managed to regroup. There had been a method to her madness, after all, or at least a purpose. She had her own investigating to do.

" – I need to ask you a question" she said, finally.

" – I thought you might, dear." Gold took a sip of his tea, set the cup on the table and leaned forward, elbows on knees, his eyes on hers, and his face attentive. That only made things more difficult, Ella thought. Then again, why stop now?

" – Do…" she turned to her teacup for support. It failed to offer any constructive suggestions, so she forged on. "Do we have a history?" She looked up, catching the specter of some unreadable emotion ripple across his features before it was replaced once more by the usual polite façade.

Gold leaned back, cocking his head to the side, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

" – Is that …" he paused, and Ella thought he was trying to reign in a smile. "… a philosophical question?"

She shook her head.

"— A practical one."

" – Ah." This time, he was the one to refuse to meet her gaze. "And what kind of history would you and I have, Ms French?" he asked quietly.

" – That's what I'm trying to figure out." She didn't dare to look at his face, so she focused on his hands instead. He had picked up the teacup again, and there was something nervous about the way his long fingers twirled it along its axis. "My memory is like a large block of Swiss cheese" she extrapolated, finally looking up.

He raised his eyebrows.

" – Bland and full of holes."

Gold chuckled, the strange tension between them abating slightly.

" – So, what makes you think we have a "history," as you say?"

Ella mulled it over.

" – It's hard to explain" she finally said, deciding that honesty was the better policy. "It's like I remember you, but I don't."

It was his turn to think, and whatever he came up with, she knew immediately she wouldn't like. He looked all too pleased with himself.

" – So, I could say that we'd had…" She raised her eyebrows when the pause stretched on for too long. "… oh, I don't know, a torrid love affair" he resumed, wrinkling his nose at the word "affair," apparently for emphasis. A grin flashed across his face, fast and sharp, with too many prickly spines and razor-like things at the edges of it. "And you wouldn't be any wiser?"

Ella crossed her arms and gave him a dirty look.

" – If it were 'torrid,' as you claim…" She paused for effect, and to her satisfaction there was a deeply expectant expression on the pawnbroker's face. "_A__nd_, I didn't remember it… wouldn't the joke be on you?"

He stared at her for a second then laughed, his palms thrown up in mock surrender.

" – Touché, Ms French."

" – So? Do we have a history?"

She thought that there was something sad pooling at the corners of his eyes, but before she could really focus on it, it was gone. He was hard to read, she thought, surprised. Most people's expression stuck to their faces like toilet paper to a shoe.

He didn't respond, watching her, fingertips pressed together in a pyramid against his lips. Ella found herself gazing mindlessly into his eyes, which in the soft orange glow of the wall lamp looked amber. She felt a moment of distant empathy with the insects that found themselves immobilized in the precious resin, to humans' delight, millennia later. Or moths, she thought, her mind fuzzy and vacuous, the earlier urgency to get answers out of him suddenly far away and out of focus, moths that burned in the light of a candle because it fooled their sense of navigation. She wondered if fairies, if such things existed, would have the same problem.

" – What do you have here, Ms French?"

Ella came back to her sense of self with a start. The pawnbroker was gesturing to the book she had almost forgotten about.

" – Oh! It's a book Henry gave me." She felt relief at the distraction, then became dimly aware that the relief was radiating from her "better-half." Apparently the thing behind the fence did not particularly want to find out the answer to her question. She put the volume in her lap, opening it to the page she was reading earlier. "He asked me to find a fairy tale that I thought was… compelling."

" – Did you?"

Her gaze fell on the picture of the red flower, glowing against the darkness.

" – I ended up reading a version of the Beauty and the Beast. Do you know the story?"

He chuckled, without much humor.

" – Certainly. A rather classic one, isn't it?"

She looked up at him then returned her gaze to the pages. It was easier to focus that way.

" – So what do you think about it?"

He paused before answering.

" – Well, it's rather typical, really. A young woman meets a monster, and through her love the beast is redeemed and becomes a charming prince. The idea, of course, is that a good woman's 'true love' can transform the not-so-ideal beast into the ideal man."

She looked up at him.

" – You really don't like that story, do you?" She watched him carefully, noting the sharp line that had formed at the corner of his mouth. "You don't buy it" she concluded.

He shrugged, averting his gaze towards the wall, as if the answer was painted there in incandescent letters.

" – I think it's a lie" he said finally. "What makes the girl think that the monster wants his curse broken?"

" – I think you're missing the point" she retorted, surprised at the heat in her words. Gold looked up at her, obviously puzzled. Ella felt herself flush. She had realized that the insight that she'd been chasing earlier, the one about the prince's last words, was hopping back and forth across her mind like some demented rabbit. She grabbed it by the tail before it could escape.

" – The point of a fairy tale is…" she looked around, grasping for an analogy. Failing to find anything on the outside, she reached inward. "Like those puzzles children have, the cube with many facets…"

" – A Rubik's cube?"

" – Yes, like that." The analogy wasn't perfect, but it'd do in a pinch. "You might be able to solve it, but it's _how_ you solve it that matters. It's how you understand the tale – that's what teaches you."

They sat in silence for a moment.

" – So, Ms French. How would you have me understand this tale?" His tone was mocking, but she thought she heard curiosity underneath.

She thumbed through the pages.

" – See, the preface explains that in the classic version Beauty eventually sees past the Beast's monstrous appearance to the prince beneath."

He nodded, not particularly impressed, so she continued.

"—But this other version inisists that the girl fell in love not with the prince at all, but with the monster. So, in fact, there's nothing "beneath" to speak of – the beastly form is as real as the human one. And when the prince speaks, at the end, he hopes that beyond his princely appearance, you know... beyond the crown, the gold, and the pretty face, she will still see her beloved monster. Because I think he knows that nothing actually guarantees her love, just on account of him being the 'ideal man,' as you say."

Ella realized she was clutching the book in deafening silence. She forced herself to look up. There was such pain in Gold's face that she found herself standing up, like a puppet on strings, and walking over to him. She reached out, not sure how she would complete the gesture, but he caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek. They stared at each other, mute, her monster howling in inarticulate grief behind its fence, the more conscious part of her wanting to weep for no reason other than the absurd tragedy of the moth predetermined by its very nature to singe its wings at the flame of a candle. She felt his warm lips brush against her palm, and she pulled her hand to her chest, turned on her heels, and rushed to the entrance of the shop, unsure of what she was running from. He caught her on her way out, pulling her hand from the door handle, his other arm encircling her waist, and both of them standing too close, startled and staring, without daring to move, or breathe. Then the opalescent soap bubble that seemed to enclose them burst, as all soap bubbles inevitably do, and the world rushed back in. Gold dropped his arms to his sides and stepped away, focusing on something irrelevant on the wall.

" – I'll make you another deal, Ms French." His voice had dropped an octave. Her mind tried to do its weird doubling trick again, and she thought she heard the incongruously high-pitched echoes of another being, a strange creature with skin made of ashes and brass, and eyes like malachite. A being that made no sense and that she could not possibly remember.

" – And what are the terms of this new deal?" she heard herself ask.

" – We will meet again, and in exchange I will tell you something of our ... history."

She turned to him, book still clutched to her chest like a shield.

" – Sunday, five o'clock."

He nodded.

" – The deal is struck" he said with finality.

She turned and walked out of the store, the evening breeze cooling her skin. Her mind felt empty, a strange thought - strange, because it felt like it belonged to a stranger – waltzing across her consciousness.

Life swarmed with innocent monsters.

* * *

**Alright, alright, I know this is all very tame and taking them a bloody long time. But I refuse to write Gold as either smarmy or gushy, and the middle road is turning out to be the longest. ****Besides, who said 'true love' shouldn't come with a healthy dollop of seduction? So hang in there.**


	8. Chapter 8: Rides from Strangers

**Folks, I hope you missed Regina, because here she comes. A bit shorter than usual, but 'real life' and all that. I try to update in my free time, which right now means the chapters are going to be smaller. On the upside, if I can do this in manageable chunks you'll get a quick turn-around.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**In which the dye is cast**

_**Every pawn is a potential queen. - James Mason**_

"- Yes, this is she." She recognized the voice and smiled. She'd stayed late, and now all the hard labor was about to pay off. Regina stood from her office chair, trailing dark, neatly manicured fingernails along the marble surface of her desk, enjoying its cool smoothness against her fingertips. She nodded a few times, taking in the new information, even if her interlocutor couldn't see her.

" - And when was this, you say?" She glanced at the elegant watch on her wrist. "Excellent. If I hurry, I might even be able to catch her on her way home." She paused for a second, listening, and laughed, the sound full and resonant. "And what about Sheriff Swan?" She nodded a few more times. "Oh this is just too perfect. Yes. Yes. Well, tomorrow night it is, then. Your pick." She laughed again, putting just the right amount of throaty seduction into it, and pressed disconnect.

In her mind's eye, she could just about see the little sniveling thing hurrying away from the pawnshop. Her informant had been delightfully specific, and certainly had a knack for noticing the gory details. From the description, it didn't look like anything too interesting had happened between the pawnbroker and his little lost treasure.

Entirely unsurprising, of course. What was that tale people in this realm liked to tell their children, about the silly fake wizard in the roll-up cart? And the three useless creatures, each missing a key detail of its anatomy - the scarecrow with no brains, the metal man with no heart and the lion with no... "courage." She chuckled darkly. Sure, if that's what you wanted to call it. And that was her point exactly about the pawnbroker. Which, of course, played in her favor, although sometimes she felt impatient, wishing that he'd pick up the pace already - it was like playing chess against the world's most apathetic sloth. She supposed she couldn't blame him - in this world, without his powers, all he could do was sit around, weave his little web, and hope a fly came by.

On the other hand, something must have given the girl her deer in the headlights look, so perhaps she shouldn't dismiss the possibility out of hand. Although, if she were to play the odds… Whichever way the coin fell, it was, for the purposes of Regina's next move, irrelevant. As long as they moved along the preassigned trajectory, the speed of the movement itself wasn't crucial. The important thing now was to get to Ms French in time to steer her in the right direction.

She made it to her car, and drove through the town center, following the route that the little pest had probably taken to get to her hovel. And there she was, all huddled over herself, and walking oh so briskly, like the devil was on her trail and gaining. She smirked at that, and pulled up the car slowly to the girl's level, matching her speed. She rolled down the window.

"- Ms French, can I give you a lift? The night is getting cold, and you don't seem to be dressed for the weather." The girl looked at Regina with her colorless eyes and hesitated. The mayor offered her most winning smile, and finally the creature nodded once. Atta girl! She got in the car, and Regina winced when she slammed the passenger door harder than was necessary. She pulled away from the curb, giving the scrawny waste of space a discreet once over, noting the residual flush in her cheeks, the tension in her shoulders, the way she clutched some ratty book to her chest, such as it was, and, most tellingly, how her eyes swam - a little nudge, and she'd be bawling her pretty little head off. Oh, what had Gold done, she wondered with mild curiosity. Of course, she had always been his weakness. For such a devious - not to mention long lived - imp, he was blind as a newborn kitten when it came to this one. Not just blind - he wasn't even managing to keep his pet happy. Nor did he seem able to decide what he wanted for himself, let alone do anything about that, whatever _that_ was. Regina's lips twisted in distaste at the thought, and she found herself glancing at the girl in puzzlement. She could, perhaps understand _him - _beggars, after all, couldn't be choosers - but _her?_ Sure, love is blind, but did it also lack the other four senses? Well, perhaps his human form was, at least, not entirely repulsive, but the scaly version? Oh, and the teeth! Regina shuddered but forced herself to get back to the matter at hand. What was important is that this pathetic creature made him helpless. Too much so, in fact. Regina suspected that when it came to Ms French, the man couldn't seduce his way out of a paper bag with a road map and a compass. Quite possibly even with one of those handy GPS gadgets. She sighed. Did she have to do everything around here?

Meanwhile, her passenger stirred, and Regina was reminded that she wasn't in the business of aimlessly giving rides to damsels in distress.

" - Ms French, is everything alright?" she asked solicitously. She didn't expect the girl to go into confession mode, but that wasn't strictly necessary anyway.

" - Yes, Madam Mayor. Thank you for asking."

Well, how well-mannered of her! She didn't have time to play cat and mouse. Henry would be home, and she wanted to make sure he was caught up on homework and dinner. So she decided to go for stern, rather than soft.

" - Ms French, I realize that it is not my place to lecture. But I honestly thought you would have more sense, or at least more will-power."

The girl was looking at her, all wide-eyed and confused. Good. Regina made herself sound flustered, as if forced to talk about something that in polite company would be considered in extremely poor taste.

" - Please, don't take this as a personal affront - I simply feel some sense of... perhaps misguided responsibility for your well-being." She paused, as if to formulate her next thought. "And so, you can understand that the last thing I expected you to do is renew your ... association with Mr Gold. I mean, both you and I know how that ended last time."

At that, Regina wanted to snigger in the most undignified manner, but of course the multiple layers of irony would be tragically lost on Ms French. So she let a pinch of sadness creep into her otherwise stern face. She mixed her facial expressions like they were recipes, or magical potions - a pinch of this, a spoonful of that. Of course, she had learned from the best, Cora had been a virtuoso.

" - I don't understand, Ms Mills." There was a stubborn edge in the girl's voice. My, my, the scruffy little thing might have little teensy claws after all! Regina amped the sorrow, and spiced it with mild disapproval. She sighed, and it felt like she had struck that perfect "from one woman to another" note.

" - Ms Mills, I understand that certain emotions are very difficult to control. And although Dr Hopper tells me that you are making remarkable progress, I also suspect that there are many unresolved issues between you and... Ones that make revisiting certain... situations feel like a kind of, how shall I put it? Compulsion, maybe?" The strategically placed ellipses she had also learned from Cora. A woman was always her own most uncharitable judge, and most merciless executioner, so whenever you could, you should let them do the work for you.

" - It's right up here." The girl chose not to respond, simply gesturing to an ugly walk-up with an enormous tree practically perched on top of it. If someone had the mind to climb it, it'd be rather easy to see into her window. Of course, it had been Regina's business to know exactly where she had moved, but there was no need to let Ms French in on that little detail.

She pulled over to the curb next to the building entrance, turning to her dramatically, and even touching her forearm briefly, as if to comfort her, or preempt any objections. She looked at the girl's face, to get a sense of where her passenger had taken her words. Cogs were very obviously turning in her skull. Regina didn't permit herself to smile yet.

" - And I realize that there is a lot of trauma there." She clasped her hands on the steering wheel, letting grief mold her features into a bleak mask. She didn't have to dig too deeply for it to feel genuine.

" - I too was in love once, Ms French." She paused. By the girl's body language, it looked like she had her undivided attention now. "I would have done anything for him." She gave the girl a dark look, to emphasize that she really had meant _anything_. She did, in fact, mean it – that was the beauty of these little exercises in honesty. Ms French looked like she was right on board with that.

" - I honestly don't know where I would have ended up, if not for my mother. She had to fight me tooth and nail, because I was simply too blinded to realize that whatever it is that we had was destroying me." She sighed deeply. "My point, Ms French, is that it's not my place to give you advice, and so I apologize, and I'll stop. But sometimes our parents are the people most able to give us perspective." She looked at the girl earnestly. "All I ask is that you speak to your father. Perhaps he can shed some clarity here. Besides, he is still recovering, and I'm sure he would like to know that he still has family that cares about him."

This was to be the nail in the coffin, that final guilt trip. And while Ms French looked suitably grieved under all that wealth of insinuations and accusations, Regina was unpleasantly surprised to see that there was something there, in the line of her mouth, or perhaps the tension around her eyes, that looked distinctly rebellious. By all accounts, she should have been a lot more docile. Regina wondered if this was a sign that there might be a problem.

She'd had ample time to study how the curse worked - certainly, she didn't understand all the theoretical intricacies, but she had a very good practical sense of its effects. The theory wasn't that important, after all - she suspected that not even Rumplestiltskin quite knew what he had created. What was important was that, like all magic, the curse had regularity, a certain set of parameters it obeyed. One of its most intriguing attributes was related to the unexpected fallout of the "No Happy Endings" clause. She had her theories, but hadn't been sure, until Charming had woken up from his coma. Certainly, she had not expected it at the time, and had been underprepared, but even though she blundered through it at first, the way his non-relationship with Snow White unfolded – or, should she say, folded on itself – exceeded her wildest hopes. And she had learned from it. If nothing else, it had confirmed that her elaborate scheme with "Ella French" stood a very good chance. After all, knowing her opponent, she had put a lot more forethought into it.

She'd kept it stashed away in her quiver for one specific occasion - if Gold had outlived his usefulness, or went behind her back. He had certainly done the latter with Kathryn, and possibly the former as well. Either way, the dye was cast, and all was going in the right direction. She just needed to put a few more pieces on the board…

So this was not the time for her pawn to start acting like a rook. She was willing to accept that there was a margin of error to the dynamics of the curse - perhaps, the girl wasn't entirely convinced, perhaps she had doubts, but as long as she did what Regina had predicted, soon there would be no room for dissent. Perhaps, Regina thought, the fact that Ms French had inherited a little piece of darkness from her sojourn at the psychiatric ward would play into Regina's favor, and make the melodrama she had set up that much more realistic. And entertaining. As long as she played her assigned role, all would be well, Regina decided.

" – Ms Mills, you of all people might understand that I might be a little reluctant to go to my father for advice."

Regina gave her a look full of compassionate understanding. So that's what it was about, resentment against dear old dad? Well, that was for Dr Hopper to pontificate about. Meanwhile she, Regina, was a practical woman.

" – Ms French. Sometimes we have to find it in ourselves to forgive others."

The girl nodded thoughtfully. Well, better late than never.

" – Thank you for the lift, Madam Mayor. Have a lovely evening."

" – Anytime, my dear." Regina cussed under her breath as the creature slammed the door again. After she had sauntered up the steps and disappeared in the foyer, Regina drove off. She hoped that Sheriff Swan was coming to the correct conclusions right about now, and with that thought, she directed her car home, humming quietly to herself.

* * *

**Voila, as always, thank you for reading, and those of you who review – thank you so much for your feedback! This little story seems to have amassed a small but awesome public of slightly reluctant (or at least picky) Rumbelle readers – I think that's incredibly neat, so please keep it up, and it's always a pleasure to get your thoughts on this :-D**

**[Syaunei] – The coronary comment really cracked me up. I swear I didn't mean to put Gold through the grinder as much as I did - he sort of crawled in there himself and pushed the "On" button. ;)**


	9. Chapter 9: In Vino Veritas

**(Disclaimer, you know the drill, I don't own anything of ouat)**

**Folks, you've probably noticed that the chapters up until now have been littered with all sorts of hints and easter eggs about what Regina has been concocting. Well, they are starting to hatch. **

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 9 **

**In which Sheriff Swan contemplates the difference between a duck and a platypus**

_**Check – **__**A move in chess that directly attacks an opponent's king but does not constitute a checkmate.**_

Sheriff Swan sat at a secluded corner table in the one watering hole available in Storybrooke and nursed a whiskey on the rocks. It was Friday night and the bar was packed, but she needed a drink as much as the next person. At first, a couple of the local men tried to approach her, driven by equal parts alcohol- induced optimism and testosterone-fueled bravado, but she was apparently giving off the "hazardous material" vibe because the would-be suitors had soon scattered to the winds, and, in the process, warned their buddies that the fire breathing dragon had meant business.

This was fine by her. In fact, the dull roar of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, and the generic rock music blaring out of the jukebox helped her mind quiet down and focus. She had needed to get away from the station for a bit.

Emma Swan was working a case, which had kept her mind reeling for the better part of the last two weeks. And though the whole affair was giving her a raging headache and an unexpected affinity for Mr Walker, it had managed to suck her in enough that she had almost forgotten all the other problems she'd had to contend with since moving to Storybrooke.

Now, at the bar, with the smell of cheap booze and the occasional cigarette smoke wafting from outside, she finally felt like the pieces were falling into place. And the picture they were forming was starting to look really, really bad.

There were two ways of looking at the mess. Emma examined her table for handy visual props. The possible candidates included one salt shaker, its pepper-bearing counterpart, a red candleholder, a cocktail napkin, a bowl of roasted peanuts, a 'specials' menu, and her glass. She decided to run through the list of facts one more time. What did she know? First - she put the bowl of peanuts square in front of her: some local kid named Gus Tonner gets drunk and falls into a well, in the middle of the woods, at night.

Ugh, she thought, she'd had water from that well. She wondered if August had known that beforehand. At least, the man hadn't floated in there for too long.

In any case, everyone in the town mourns the terrible tragedy, but it doesn't seem to make too much of a splash, so to speak, in the collective consciousness. Second, Ella French, the kid's alleged fiancée at the time - she marshaled the candleholder, rolled up the napkin, and stuck the candleholder behind the paper wall - gets put in the loony bin after flipping out and giving the honest folks of Storybrooke a thrill for their buck with a series of disturbing "art pieces". Now, that gets the town's attention, the press - she waved the "specials" flyer around - has a field day with the Hieronymus Bosch analogy, and everyone is relieved when Ms French is safely tucked away.

Now, five years later, Ms French is released - she took the napkin away - and suddenly the DA wants to reopen the case - she pushed Mr Walker to the middle of the table, looking at it apologetically. It took the insult without flinching. It wasn't that the DA was breathing down Emma's neck, exactly - nothing so consistent. It was more like he gave a couple of vigorous exhales in her general direction to put the metaphorical fire under her ass, then retreated to whatever lair DAs inhabited. She didn't like the guy one bit - he was a classical bully, but that was neither here, nor there.

So, what did they know now, that they hadn't known then? First, Ella French gets released from the psych ward, and turns out to be a pretty reasonable young woman, albeit has something seriously askew with her memory. Second, the town starts to enthusiastically blabber about the involvement between Ms French and - Emma pushed the saltshaker next to the candleholder - everyone's favorite pawnbroker. Understandable, in a way, Emma thought - after Regina, Gold probably took second place on the local denizens' least favorite people chart. Finding a chink in his armor would be pretty satisfying.

However, it didn't look like the rumors were all hot air - she'd been observing the two of them in the last week, and sure enough, they'd been orbiting each other and generating enough frustrated voltage she was surprised they hadn't shorted the circuits in Granny's diner. And she had watched Ms French go into the pawnshop that evening, then leave about an hour later, looking like death, microwaved. Whatever happened, there were serious emotions involved, so it was plainly obvious that they had known each other before, even if Ella French claimed to not remember.

Now, Emma had done her homework - Mary Margaret had told her about the strange yearbook entry, and they had pored over the two quotes, eventually identifying both, but not really getting any further. The first, Mary Margaret had nailed – something about adulterous Russian aristocracy. The second turned out to be from a short essay by French poet and writer Charles Baudelaire. The story was about an obviously deranged woman who had a very odd and slightly grim obsession with doctors. That's where the narrator reflected on her being an 'innocent monster.' Well, that did not get them very far with Ella French - unless the girl had a secret thing for Dr Whale, which seemed rather unlikely - so Emma had dug deeper, and sure enough, hit pay dirt.

Graham had his files in order, and there was a record on Ella French, complete with puzzled descriptions of her "collages." At the thought of Graham, she felt a dull ache somewhere in her chest, and sent some bourbon down its way for anesthetic purposes. Regina - she took the pepper shaker and positioned it opposite the salt shaker, on the other side of the bowl of peanuts - had been dead on: Graham had been a diligent sheriff.

Now, this was where things got very odd. When she tried to pull Gus Tonner's file, it turned out to be missing - its corresponding slot in the filing box contained a small envelope with a slip of paper, with RM and the name of the local bank scrawled on it in pencil. The identity of the mysterious RM was pretty self-evident. So she did the logical thing - she called her. Madam Mayor, ever consistent, raised an impressive stink about Emma not doing her job right, which got Emma's hackles up, and resulted in her latching on like a bulldog and eventually wearing Madam Mayor down. It turned out that when the case was closed, Regina had gotten Graham to give her the documents. In response to Emma's outraged "why?" Regina invited her to meet at the local bank - predictably, the one on the piece of paper. Apparently, the mayor, in her highhanded brilliancy, had decided to keep the damn case file locked in a vault.

"- You may review the case, Ms French, and draw your own conclusions. All I can say is that Graham had been thorough - there was simply not enough evidence, and the events had been too ambiguous. He made the best judgment he could have, at the time."

Emma crossed her arms and glared at her.

" - Are you mad, lady? What did you think you were doing, taking a case from the police station archive and locking it away?"

Regina gave Emma a tight-lipped smile.

"- As you know, Ms Swan, Graham and I had been lovers. I was afraid precisely of something like this - the DA suddenly getting a bee in his bonnet, some ridiculous idea about sloppy investigations or botched cases. I have known the man for a long time, this has happened before." Madam Mayor's face was twisted in a cold, angry mask. That was what made Emma think that, contrary to all expectations, Regina was being genuine. Anger was about the only emotion the woman didn't seem to fake. "All I wanted was to protect Graham, Ms Swan. I don't know about you, but I don't want Graham's name to be dragged through the mud. He was a good, honest man, and he took his job seriously. So please do what you must, but be discreet." At that, she turned around on her heels and clicked away.

Emma had studied the file. Gus Tonner, former football star, kids reported the body, drunk, fell in a well, hit his head on the way down, died in the hospital. After her first whiskey of the night, still at the station and reading the file, Emma remembered that she should label the unmarked folder, so she wrote "Humpty Dumpty" – in pencil, of course. She had leafed through the coroner's report - there had been a copy of the partial autopsy, and the tox screen. There were a few photos as well, all of them close ups of the wounds and lacerations, post-mortem. The only picture of the "whole" Mr Tonner, or even one that showed his face, was one from his yearbook.

Something had drawn her attention to one of the photos - not so much the picture itself, but the discrepancy between the coroner's report and the image. The report said that the bruising and abrasions on the young man's left temple had been consistent with a glancing blow to the head with a blunt object, say, a stone jutting out of the well wall - so, presumably, the guy leaned over into the well, lost his footing and hit his head on the side. It knocked him out, and so the drowning ensued.

Fair enough, she thought, but there had been something more there, in the photograph - the ghost of a dark hematoma made up of two parallel lines, about half an inch of yellowish discoloration between them, underneath and running perpendicular to the direction of the main wound. She wondered why the coroner had missed it. So, the top part of the wound did indeed seem consistent with the impact from a blunt, uneven object, whether stone or something else, but the bottom part...

It was there in one other photo, a similar mark on the top part of the right calf, on the soft tissue of the interior side of the knee joint: the same bruise in the form of two parallel lines. The picture was meant to show the abrasion on Tonner's kneecap, presumably incurred during the fall, but that left the other bruises unaccounted for.

What the hell, right? - Emma asked her drink. Mr Walker was listening attentively, but didn't contribute.

Well, she thought, she had a pretty good idea what caused that kind of injury, had seen something similar once or twice in her previous career - it was the kind of contusion that a blow from a golf club might leave.

A carbon fiber walking cane might do it too. And there was only one person she knew in town who used one of those. Of course, that didn't prove anything, and would never stand in court.

So, she was back to her original thought: there were two ways of reading the facts, one ridiculous, and one quite probable. First possibility: this had been some extremely elaborate plan to frame Gold for murder, or at least manslaughter, complete with a wealth of planted evidence that would have taken years to position, including fake autopsy reports, doctored photographs, fake newspaper articles, and who knew what else she hadn't gotten to yet. Of course, if that were the case, that still didn't account for 'town memory.' If more than three people tell you the same thing, it's a social fact. So, the social facts were as follows: there had been some kid called Gus Tonner who died under strange circumstances. He had a fiancée that went off the rails as a result. Said fiancée was spending some close and personal time – Emma bumped the salt shaker a few times against the candle holder - with the town's very own Don Corleone. And if her yearbook was any evidence, she'd quite possibly been at it since late high school. Emma pinched the bridge of her nose and briefly shut her eyes. Unless Regina had some kind of mass hysteria producing device that worked to fabricate collective memories, that part had to be at least vaguely based on reality. Ok.

Alternatively, one could read the facts from a different perspective. It was like one of those drawings that are two things at once, depending on what you focus on – vases and faces, a young woman and an old hag… So, the other take was that the whole thing had been a monumentally botched cover up of a suspected murder. It looked like a classic corrupt cop configuration: they didn't have enough evidence, and wrote off the death as accidental for the sake of closing the case, not screwing up the statistics, and covering their asses. That Graham would do that surprised her, but she also knew Graham had been deeply in Regina's pocket. And that Regina felt the need to hide the file seemed to lend credibility to the theory. That could logically mean that Gold, being a big toothy piranha in a small pond of goldfish, had been impossible to bring in on any sort of accusation. There was nothing Graham could have done, but Regina being Regina had thrown her weight around to cover for Graham, even if it wasn't technically his fault that the case was a flop.

Graham hadn't been dead for that long - what were the odds: Graham dies, Storybrooke gets a new sheriff, and shortly after, lo and behold, the DA suddenly wants this new sheriff to look into an old and presumably closed case? Then again, what on Earth was in it for the DA? Although it would certainly explain who had leaked the story to the blasted Daily Mirror, especially that little bit about the supposed murder weapon, which had been a total lie - she had zilch on that end. It hadn't been her, and it didn't look like it had been Regina, so that left one other person in the know that the press would take seriously. The story being out there would also force Emma's hand to start the investigation, and would neutralize Regina if she considered interfering.

And looking at the photos from Gus Tonner's autopsy, there very well might have been a murder weapon. So what had made Regina relax her steely grip on the file, all of a sudden? Unless the DA was breathing down her neck too, and throwing someone else under the bus looked like a more attractive alternative than jumping under it herself.

Well, at least the last part seemed likely.

That left Belle and her artwork. She would have to look at it again, but maybe there was something encoded there, some suggestion that the girl had known something. Hell, say Gold and Tonner had a fight over her – Emma grabbed the bowl of peanuts in one hand, and the salt shaker in the other, and moved them into a face-off - and he accidentally, or purposefully killed his rival. She grabbed a fistful of peanuts and chewed meditatively. Your lover kills your - for all intents and purposes - husband, you might go a bit soft in the head too. If so, had Gold been in on her institutionalization? Had Ella become a liability? Would he even want that Gus kid dead – what was the advantage of getting him out of the way, if he and Ella had carried on for almost five years under the guy's nose? Some kind of primal "I can share you no longer" jealousy? Conversely, why the hell didn't she just leave this Gus, instead of dragging out the love triangle charade? Unless, she was the one who had done it, or maybe they both had...

Emma's headache was getting worse. And what was up between Gold and Moe French? That kind of outburst was just disproportional – Gold hadn't turned violent against Ashley, after all, and she had stolen from him too. Hell, he had let go of the whole baby business fairly readily - one might say he had acted self-servingly, but rather reasonably. But the attack against Moe French – that looked old and personal, and entirely un-Gold like. One might even think the man was capable of human emotions. Was Bella's father somehow involved? Insisted on the daughter's marriage to Gus, maybe?

Without a motive, there wasn't much she could really conclude.

She needed more evidence, but one thing, at least, was becoming clear: interpretation number two was far more likely than interpretation number one. A frame job like that wouldn't just need years of planning, serious connections, and an incredible faith in one's ability to manipulate others – it would have to border on the supernatural. And that was just going too far. Emma sighed and downed the rest of her drink. The principle of Occam's razor at work: if it looked like a duck, quacked like a duck, and harassed you for breadcrumbs, the statistical likelihood of it being a platypus was comparatively low.

She got up and walked to the bar to settle her tab. Maybe things would make more sense in the morning.

* * *

**As always, thank you all so much for reading and commenting, it is, as always, a pleasure to hear your thoughts and feedback. Now, I realize we have very few episodes of the show left so by this point this story is pretty much guaranteed to go AU – so apologies in advance, and I hope you keep reading.**

**Some of you have very accurately pointed out that I'm keeping Gold**** a black-box ;) ****– you'****re right, and ****I wil****l eventually ****voice R/G, but ****I'm letting him take a life of his own ****so that I can actually do him justice and not cut corners with a kind of stereotypical romantic hero voice ****;)**** Don't worry, he's getting there, and the**** plot will soon demand things to be told from his perspective anyway****. ****In my defense, ****up until skin deep ****Gold/Rumple**** didn't even register for me as ****a**** 'gendered'**** character, let alone ****a potential romantic hero**** (and ****this ****should be read as a testimony to Mr Carlyle's talent, not a critique of it.****)**** This is what makes a Rumbelle pairing so fun to play with –**** part of this thought experiment is to try to imagine**** why R & B "get" each other beyond, you know, the usual...**

******[****Syaunei] – Oh, you nailed it with the Marquise!**** Actually, this makes me think - within the Belle story line, there's something structurally very Valmont-esque about Rumple/Gold, though of course the broader character is very differently motivated****. And yes, die/dye - mea culpa!****I need a beta reader ;****D**


	10. Chapter 10: Generational Gaps

**Earlier than expected, and a little darker than usual, but I figured I'd get it out of my system. =) As always, thanks for commenting. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 10**

**In which Ella visits family**

**"Truth derives its strength not so much from itself as from the brilliant contrast it makes with what is only apparently true. This applies especially to Chess, where it is often found that the profoundest moves do not much startle the imagination." - Emanuel Lasker**

Seventeen. Ella stifled another murderous urge emanating from the deranged side of her consciousness, and forced herself to keep her eyes trained on the ginger-haired white-frocked goblin's forehead. She supposed that she should be grateful that she could get a doctor's appointment on a Saturday morning, when the out-patient clinic seemed especially full. Regina had demanded medical check-ups, and she was not about to give Madam Mayor an excuse.

About twenty minutes into their tortuous interaction, she had discovered a fascinating feature: if she looked at a point exactly between Dr Whale's eyes, he couldn't actually notice that she wasn't making eye contact, but her steady gaze made him somewhat uncomfortable. She, in turn, didn't have to witness the fact that the windows to his soul seemed to open on an arresting display of airing unmentionables. Sadly, the solution was only partial: her peripheral vision stubbornly picked up the way his head bobbed slightly up and down at regular intervals, a movement that marked Dr Whale's apparent need to assure himself that the part of Ella occupying the space below her neck hadn't spontaneously disappeared. Eighteen. She had begun to count after the phenomenon had repeated six times. Maybe he had short-term memory problems.

" - Well, your blood pressure is normal, pulse a little elevated." He scribbled. "Any complaints besides the insomnia?"

Ella shook her head no. Sudden murderous urges were probably not within his particular area of expertise.

" - Dizziness, shortness of breath?"

" - No."

He scribbled some more.

" - Would you like me to prescribe you a sleeping aid?" She glanced at the good doctor, and there he was again, with those roaming pale eyes and unpleasant little smile, his opinion of what he thought Ella French really needed in the sleeping aid department written in capital letters across his freckled face. Ella forced herself to exhale slowly, trying to drill a hole in his forehead with her gaze. She didn't succeed, but must have looked a little unhinged, because Dr Whale had suddenly felt the need to clear his throat and move around on his chair. To Ella's relief, once he was suitably reminded that salivating over the town's resident maniac was socially unacceptable, Moby Dick refocused on completing the paperwork.

" - Well, Ms French, I think you are in good health, all things considered. It's good that you've put on a little weight since you'd been discharged." Nineteen, Ella counted. Perhaps next time she had to submit herself to this, she would ask Leroy if he had a harpoon she could borrow.

She got up to leave.

" - Since you're here, Ms French, I thought you might wish to visit your father. He's in 216, on the second floor. Would you like me to walk you to his room?"

I would like you to wear a chamber pot for a hat, Ella thought, and smiled pleasantly.

" - No, thank you, I will find my own way down." Perhaps the smile had been a little too gleeful, because Dr Whale was suddenly rearranging things on his desk that did not need rearranging.

No matter how much she flipped it around in her mind, this day would not suddenly evolve from toad to bird of paradise. The soundest policy would then be to maximize its badness, so that it wouldn't spill into the next day, or the day after. After all, there had to be a finite quantity of unpleasant things the universe could toss at her before it ran out, and had to go off and restock. Besides, she could not put off visiting her father forever.

Whether it was the stress of the last week, or something inherent to the nature of the problem itself, the fragile equilibrium of Ella's bisected consciousness had been shifting. At first, containing the 'weird' part had simply been a matter of cutting it off from the rest, enclosing it safely behind its fence, and ignoring most of its outbursts. It had been a practical solution to an impractical problem. Ironically, keeping things in and keeping things out made up two sides of the same coin. As the space behind the fence became inaccessible to her, it slowly turned murky and tremulous, opening up onto a deep vastness that pressed on her mind, and the presence inhabiting it grew in strength. Soon, the part of her consciousness she understood as normal found itself enclosed, the fence the only thing that separated it from the abominations lurking outside. Her and her other half were switching places. It was clearly time to reopen diplomatic negotiations.

Ella walked down the back stairs, the institutional silence and acrid smell of antiseptic enclosing her in its familiar capsule, where time had no meaning and the world beyond the immediate moment of experience was a fog. She forced herself to walk down slowly, methodically, noticing the way her shoes sounded against the concrete, her footsteps marking off the passing seconds like a metronome. Ella felt her better half throw itself against the enclosure in agitation, and decided to try to talk it down. She had a sense she knew what rattled it. She would not step out of time, she cajoled - as long as she could notice its passage and walk alongside it, she remained in time, despite the fact that the hospital was a place where time made a habit of running out. Her better half grumbled in acquiescence, but the ruckus stopped, and Ella was grateful.

The second floor of the hospital was oddly hushed, like the air itself was padded with cotton, and she walked down the gleaming speckled tile floor, reading the numbers in passing. 216 was the last room at the very end of the corridor, before it T-shaped into two direction. The door was closed. She knocked, waited, knocked louder. She thought she heard someone on the other side, so she pushed the door open and entered.

The room was small and dim, and mostly taken up by an enormous contraption that looked like the lovechild of a bed and a forklift. There were no windows, but a TV turned to a sports channel crackled and hissed under the ceiling. The man in the bed turned heavy-lidded eyes in her direction, his face puffy and sagging from bad diet, lack of movement, bruising, and medication. She studied him with a strange gaze - not clinical, exactly, but more like the way a painter studies intently the surfaces of things to rob them of their third dimension and capture them on paper. Bruises, in various stages of black and yellow striped his forearms, where he must have thrown them up to shield himself from the blows. Bruising on the face and neck gave the skin a strange calico pattern. His nose had been broken and the bridge was still swollen disproportionately, he had stitches along the left side of his forehead, and since the man looked drugged, she assumed that there had been more damage she couldn't see. She noted there was an aluminum walker in the corner of the room, and she wondered if he'd had to use it. She looked around. There wasn't much, a standard hospital space with nothing personal, just a stack of Daily Mirrors on the bedside table. She noticed the one with the "Wishing Well Murder" sticking out.

" - Ella? Ella, is that you?"

She approached the bed gingerly.

" - Yes, father, it's me." She pulled up a chair next to the bed, and sat down. He didn't say anything for some time, perhaps because the drugs had made his thoughts sluggish, perhaps because he wasn't sure what he was meant to say. A hand extended in her direction, and she took it, obediently, giving it a few pats with her other hand before releasing it.

" - Regina came by last week, told me they'd let you out. That you're well, now."

There was a bitterness coming from her better half, crawling over the fence in dark accusatory tendrils. She slapped them away and told it to keep quiet for now. She'd handle this.

" - I don't know if I'm well, exactly, but it certainly beats the alternative."

His features were set in a familiar expression, equal parts disappointment and fear, and Ella realized she had seen it innumerable times before, and resented it instantly. Her mind strained to distill one of its fake memories from its depth, a brief vision of herself standing next to a tall vaulted window in what must have been a tower, looking out onto a bloody sunset pooling against a jagged mountainous horizon. Nothing on the cardboard side of her memories corresponded to the image, but the expression on her father's face existed on both sides of the fence. Her first instinct was to push the fake memory back down where it had come from, but she was beginning to think that this was bad policy. She offered her other side an olive branch – she would take the images it flung at her as "symbolic," rather than batty. They could agree to disagree of what "symbolic" meant, but for now, this established a kind of collaboration.

" - Why did you do it? Was there no other way?"

He looked at her with uncomprehending, frightened eyes, and Ella frowned.

" - Why did you feel the need to get me committed?" she explained. She searched his face, intently, as if the answer would eventually swim across, beneath the troubled surface. For about ten seconds, her father looked astonishingly confused, as if he was trying to remember something, his eyes roaming around the room for help and finally falling onto the bedside table with its stack of newspapers. He looked up at his daughter, confusion lifting to be replaced with a deep frown, anger weighing down the corners of his lips, and carving the nasolabial grooves that framed his mouth even more deeply.

" – You don't remember? At all?"

She shook her head.

" – How after Gus's death you went completely nuts? Scaring the town half to death with your … whatever the hell they were. We were afraid you'd hurt someone, or yourself."

He looked at her, that same mix of fear and disappointment, which Ella suddenly suspected he misidentified as concern, except, she realized, it wasn't fear _for _her, but fear _of_ her. "Oh, I don't blame you, honey, it's that horrible little man, he brainwashed you and used you, then threw you out like a… like a… dirty tissue." Moe French's voice cracked. "I think I can understand why you forgot, it was all too much."

Ella had a good idea who her father was referring to – it was, after all, a variation on the same tune most of the town had been collectively harmonizing about – with a bit more brass and drums thrown in, but recognizable. But in this rendition, the melody was more cutting. She hated the pity, but more importantly, she hated the inference that she was a thing, one that, with use, inevitably lost some, if not all, of its original value. Again, that strange memory surfaced, rough stone walls, woven carpets worn to threads by innumerable boots, the resinous smell of burning torches, and blood painting the sky red. There too, she would have been a pretty bobble, an asset in an exchange transaction, something that, if nicely decorated and kept quiet, would fetch a decent brideprice.

She nodded to herself slowly. Her and her better-half had an agreement now, and she was beginning to understand what 'symbolic' meant. It provided illustrations to what she intuited, and no matter how fanciful, odd, or out of place, they carried the main point across. She could work with that.

" – So, remind me what happened." She forced herself to unclench her teeth and relax her fingers.

Moe French gave her a pained look.

" – Ella, I don't…"

" – Just do it. I am tired of people dancing around it."

He was silent for a long moment.

"—Do you remember Gus, at least?"

She shook her head.

" – Not really, so start from the beginning."

His breathing, she noticed, was belabored, shallow and loud as if he didn't want to take deep inhales. She wondered if he had a cracked rib.

" – Well, see, you and Gus started dating in your senior year. It was all proper, of course, he'd pick you up for the dances, and you guys went to the movies, always had you back at a reasonable hour. He was the perfect guy for you, solid, you know, and from a good family. You know it's been hard to run a small business in this town, we'd make do, but … well, I guess I was hoping he might be serious about you, because then you'd have a kind of financial security I couldn't really give you."

Ella listened attentively. Perhaps, she could understand his reasoning. In principle. She was a financial burden, and he worried, so once someone came along to take her off his hands, it would feel like a relief.

"—Since your mother died, I'd been trying to raise you right, but it hasn't been easy. You always had that wild streak, just like she had." His expression went rigid and cold, and Ella crossed her arms across her chest with an involuntary shudder. "'Bout the time you were finishing up school, you got a part time job at that consignment store, for that... that man. Not sure what you did for him, cleaned I think, and maybe helped out a bit with the bookkeeping, maybe ran the cash register when he had to go off on his damn money collecting. I was really struggling then with the delivery, the old truck was unreliable, and you were helping out the best you could with the cash flow." He paused, his expression warm for a few seconds, then clouding over and growing darker. "I figured that's when it all started. I noticed he kept giving you all sorts of books to read – I'd never been too keen on that whole literature stuff, it will give you all sorts of useless ideas and waste your time, but you also used to hide them on the inside of magazines when you read them, so no one could pick up on the title. Well, I didn't think that was right, and I didn't like what these books were doing to you: you'd gotten all rebellious, talking back and flying off the handle. You and Gus had started fighting, too. I remember you put the weirdest things as your senior yearbook quote - everyone talking about it for weeks, about what it had possibly meant. And Gus's had been so sweet, but that wasn't good enough for you, was it?"

Ella simply sat, listening and staring at the corner of the bed. The story did not sound familiar, but it also didn't sound all that new – it was as if the narrative had been so frequently rehearsed by the people around her, with pieces missing but inferable, that it felt like she knew and could predict its twists and turns. This was the part of her memory during which someone else had apparently been at the wheel.

" – After a few months of this, I put my foot down, and said you wouldn't be working at that store anymore. You threw a giant tantrum, but I guess you saw light, eventually. Things got better. You and Gus patched things up, you know. So one evening he came around to the house, all formal, to ask me if he could marry you. Good kid. Good family, with manners, I'm telling you. Well, I gave you two my blessings, sure thing.

" – So what happened next?"

" – You were meant to be planning the wedding, but you said you wanted to put it off for several years, get a degree first - no idea what for, but you weren't going to budge. You'd gotten a job at the library, and were taking some college courses online. Were talking about leaving Storybrooke to go to college, but that wasn't going to happen, we couldn't afford it. Gus wasn't happy about it, you putting things off like that, but you could be stubborn as a mule when you put your mind to it. Then next year was really bad with the business. Wholesalers jacked up the prices, my usual distributor had gone out of business, and the guys who took over had no conscience. Gas prices went up too." He sighed. "I was gonna go under unless I took a loan."

Ella chuckled grimly. Oh yes, with her father, it was money all the way down, wasn't it?

" – The bank turned me down, so I went to see Gold. Well, the bastard said Ok, and I'd thought I'd turn it all around, but business was still dreadful and I couldn't make the interest payments. He said he'd waive it on the condition you'd come work for him again."

" - And did I?"

He looked at her with that mix of fear and disappointment.

" - You sure did."

" - And how was business?"

"- Well, we made it out ok for a while, it picked up eventually, but by the time I was starting to make the payments again, you said you would keep working for him, saying it was enough to pay for your classes. It would've been better had you put that money in the family business, that's for sure. All you got from those classes were more books and silly ideas in your head. You spent all your time either at his damn store, or at the library, studying. He paid better than your old job, at least, I'll give him that."

The man shifted around and groaned, then tried to clear his throat. His voice had gone dry and his tongue clicked unpleasantly against the roof of his mouth. Ella looked around, found a paper cup, and filled it with water from a plastic bottle on the bedside table. He took a few sips and handed it back.

" - People in town were starting to talk, too." He sighed. "Can't say I blamed them much. It wasn't proper, that's for damn sure."

" - Me working for Mr Gold so that you could get your interest payments waived wasn't proper?" Ella noticed that her lips had suddenly gone icy cold, and it was hard to articulate.

" - If you hadn't put off marrying Gus, then we wouldn't have had that problem."

" - So, let me get this perfectly straight. If I'd married Gus, I would have had more direct access to his family's assets, and you'd been able to funnel some of it into your failing business?" Ella realized that her voice was becoming a little strident, but she ignored it. There was a storm gathering on the other side of the fence, thunder rumbling in the murky depths, and she listened, fascinated, for any sign of her abominable other self. It prowled quietly somewhere in the darkness.

" - It wasn't proper because you were engaged, and spending time with that old bastard was twisting your brain! I barely recognized you. Gus barely recognized you. You'd lost all sense of shame. You think I didn't know what you two were up to? Gus was too in love with you to see it, and I didn't have the heart to sit him down and tell him. That's what drove him to drinking. If it hadn't been for you running about with that leech, none of this would have happened!"

" - If it hadn't been for you using me to fix your financial problems, you mean." Her voice was playing see-saw with itself, and she hated the sound.

Moe French blinked a few times, startled.

" - You're back at it, aren't you? Not two weeks out, and you ran back to that... _beast_." He tried to raise himself up in the bed, but the complicated contraption refused to cooperate, and he gave up.

Ella looked at him again with that off flatteing gaze, watching the bruised mosaic arrange itself into strange missives.

" - Finish the story."

Moe French exhaled, and seemed to deflate. He looked at her, fear and disappointment mingling in just the right proportions to finally allow Ella to identify the emotion - disgust.

" - Not much to finish. Gus had his accident in the woods, probably after another fight with you. Although now it's not looking like it was an accident, is it? You went crazy, from a guilty conscience I bet. Gold, of course, wouldn't have anything to do with you after that and fired you." He paused, looking at his daughter, but seeing a stranger. "He'd had his fun, but what use is a broken toy to him? You started acting out, doing these weird 'pictures' until the police caught you. Regina helped get you psychological help."

" - And off I went to the funny farm."

Moe French, anger distorting his features, glared at the girl.

" - Don't give me that sarcastic crap, missy. Keep thinking he's your prince in shining armor, do you? After what he did to me? I mean, look at me, I'm your father damn it, and you're sitting and looking at me like I'm no one! Well, you keep thinking that, you do." He paused and gestured to the water cup. She handed it to him, on automatic, and he took a few angry gulps, then returned the cup to her hand. "Who do you think was paying all the medical bills for you to stay there all that time, huh?" he asked quietly.

" - Regina?" The mayor had been her contact on the medical forms, after all.

Moe's lips twisted, half smirk, half scowl. Where had all that venom come from, Ella wondered, a little astounded, suddenly recognizing nothing of this man in the hospital bed.

" - Why would she do that?" he asked, staring at her with his heavy-lidded eyes. "It doesn't come free, you know. But as long as someone kept paying to keep you there, you'd stay there. So why don't you go ask your former "employer" where the money had come from? After all, you know that _I_ don't have that kind of income."

Ice had spread from Ella's lips down to her neck, into her shoulders, and to her very fingertips, a shard of it lodging itself in her heart, numb and aching, so she rubbed her sternum, trying to dislodge it. When she found herself standing, turning, and walking slowly towards the door, she was surprised that bits of ice didn't break off and scatter, but perhaps ice too had certain elasticity.

" - You go ask him! Don't expect him to tell you the truth, but you go look him in the eye and ask him!" the man in the bed was yelling after her, his voice dry and crackling.

She closed the door behind her very softly.

* * *

**Don't worry, the mysterious DA from last chapter will eventually be explained. ;)**


	11. Chapter 11: A Faustian Bargain

**Oof, this one was a little more difficult than the others. Also, when I sat down to write this, I really didn't expect to go that way, but… well, it did. As always, thanks for reading, and I'd love to get your feedback on this one. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

**In which Mr Gold receives a visitor**

"**Some part of a mistake is always correct" (Savielly Tartakover)**

The exquisitely carved wooden clock came alive, the pendulum spring launching its internal mechanism into a coughing fit of cuckoo noises, and Gold stared at it with malevolence. The clock remained stoically unimpressed, and proceeded to inform him that it was, indeed, Sunday, 6pm.

She was an hour late.

They had said 5:00, and, for some odd reason, he did not, for a single second, doubt that she would come.

He tossed the polishing rag on the table, and set down the chess piece he had finished carving, the rosewood catching the glow of his desk lamp and refracting it in a softly striped pattern. He had always liked knights - well, at least in the game. They were devious and unpredictable, moving oddly across the board, and despite their limitations a good player could mobilize their chaotic elegance to his advantage. They were also fun to carve.

He got up, leaning on his cane for support, and walked to the front of the store with the irritated awareness that this would not, in any way, solve the problem - if she had decided against it, whether he sat in the back of his store and kept himself busy, or stood in the front and pretended not to watch time crawl would make absolutely no difference.

Since he had come to this realm, he's had an odd relationship with time. Devoid of magic, this world seemed to be very dogmatic about what time was - by and large, people firmly believed that it moved in a line, in a single forward direction, and was made up of some kind of homogenous stuff that could be broken into small equal bits and measured. They methodically insisted on organizing their lives around the devices they had invented to perform said measurement. He had therefore developed a morbid appreciations for clocks - that, and earth globes, which too were vaguely amusing, especially in a place like Storybrooke where most people couldn't, or wouldn't, leave - and like most things he developed an appreciation for, he tried to hoard them.

The trouble with time was that he, himself, no longer moved at will through it, or stood outside of it, immune. He was as stuck as everyone else, slapped into a body that, to add insult to injury, was starting to feel its own temporary nature. He had to give credit where credit was due - the Queen had a certain sense of humor. He had asked to be 'comfortable' in addition to wealthy - well, it did seem like when bodies around here aged, the prerogative for comfort did, in fact, trump all other desires or ambitions, and this world kindly obliged, creating ever more gadgets to accelerate the progressive transformation of a person into a vegetable life form. He chuckled to himself - who said this world didn't have magic? It just took longer, but even he, in his long life as the pretentiously labeled "Dark One" - but then again, the label was coined by a soldiering dimwit who had as much imagination as a tree stump - had only rarely turned things into flora.

Distracted by his musings, he had made his way to the front of the store, and was incensed to realize that this part too was occupied by an inordinate amount of clocks. He didn't remember having quite so many - perhaps they bred while he wasn't looking. Be it as it may, the clocks were in consensus - it was 6:09. She wasn't coming.

The little bell above the door chimed, and Gold was unpleasantly surprised to realize that a sudden vacuum had formed in the general area of his solar plexus, and he had the distinct sensation of falling. Since nature, they said, is not fond of vacuums, the feeling of emptiness was quickly replaced with a dull pulsing throb, which he immediately identified as fear. He greeted it the way one might a long lost relative - the one you had buried in a shallow grave, and certainly weren't expecting back.

She stood at the threshold, huddled in the shapeless beige raincoat which made her already petite frame seem even smaller. It must have been raining outside, because her hair was coiling wildly with the humidity, the large curls springing invitingly around her face, and for the N-th time in his life he wondered what it would feel like to bury his fingers in her hair. But that was neither here, nor there, so he slipped into one of his habitual masks, which he wore comfortably - that word again! - like a second skin, and offered her a slightly mocking half-smile.

" - Ms French! And here I was, sure that you had forgotten our little deal."

When she didn't smile, he looked at her carefully, which was when he realized that something was terribly wrong. She gave him a strange look, confusion and hurt and something else he couldn't begin to identify battling in her eyes. Then that something else apparently won, her lips folded into a resolute little bow and she stepped forward, her gaze trained on him intently, and he found himself turning into the aforementioned tree stump, with the wits to match. Perhaps he and "August Booth" could exchange notes on their suddenly found arborescence.

" - I need you to answer something." She came closer, slowly, and he was caught up watching her face, which was at once familiar and other. That had been something that had fascinated him from the beginning, the way that he could never quite put her features together. His attention singled out one trait or another, the curve of a cheekbone, the way her eyelashes darkened her blue eyes, the soft contour of her lips, such that through some trick of perception her face seemed always a little different, never quite just as he remembered it. Even as he watched it, it was in constant flux, the kaleidoscopic play transfixing. It drove him to distraction, even now, when he was supposed to be focusing on the fact that whatever she had to say would most likely be bad news. But for a being who was used to living outside of time, tweaking and weaving human trajectories into intricate lattices - most of the time for his own personal amusement, because passing eternity and being able to reasonably predict the future inevitably meant that you got abysmally bored - the constant and unexpected change of her features had felt like a small miracle. It made him think, in his weaker moments, that perhaps the universe was capable of occasional bouts of benevolence.

" - Just answer yes or no. Have I ever worked for you?"

The fear that had settled in his stomach was now gnawing its way up. It was impossible, of course, that she would remember, the curse made sure that whatever memories surfaced were quickly twisted into something that would make sense in this world. That was one of the things that had made it so resilient.

" - A long time ago." He offered, noting that he couldn't quite bring himself to lie, and that was in itself something to be seriously alarmed about.

He would be alarmed later. Right now he was planning to get through this conversation and avoid the underwater reefs.

She nodded.

" - Just a few more questions, Mr Gold." Her voice sounded like there were snowflakes twirling between the words and he was surprised that his breath wasn't turning to little puffs of vapor.

" - Was I engaged at the time I worked for you?"

He exhaled loudly, half chuckle, half sigh, and smiled, despite himself.

" - This seems like a bit of a non-sequitur, Ms French."

" - Please don't call me that." Her expression clouded, and began to border on stormy, and he thought he saw a quick shudder shake her shoulders.

" - And what shall I call you, dear?" She looked up at him, her eyebrows drawing closer, in anger or concentration, he couldn't quite tell.

" - Ella will do." He wasn't sure what to make of the first-name basis, so he tried it for size.

" - Ella." He let the name roll off his tongue, the smooth liquidity of the two ls rounded off with the final a. It was different than her name before, which was bright, sparkling, and genuine, bordering on naive. This one was much darker, with a bold opening and a kind of deliciously languid finish, like a caress... He cut off his thoughts abruptly, because the culprit of his internal diatribe was looking up at him, her lips parted slightly, and her cheeks flushing bright pink. Whatever he was thinking must have leaked into his face, and he wondered briefly what she had seen there. She looked quite flustered, but also - and he felt a mild twinge of satisfaction at that - intensely focused. He tried to remember what they had been talking about.

" - Lets, maybe, for now, stick with Ms French" he proposed, and winked at her conspiratorially. The action was so incongruous for this mask that he didn't know who was more surprised.

She nodded quickly, the flush that had started to dissipate coming back with a vengeance, and he just couldn't help himself, he chuckled under his breath. She narrowed her eyes at him - and he noted with pleasure that the seemingly impending ice-age was perhaps moving into a thaw. There was still anger and confusion in her eyes, so he returned them to the matter at hand.

Might as well face the beast ...

" - You asked me whether you had been engaged when you were in my employment."

She nodded. He thought about it.

" - I believe the technical answer would be... yes." He had no doubt that the slightly idiotic Gaston would have agreed, at least. She nodded again, as if she had expected it. It was so unlikely that she remembered, and yet, why else would she be asking? Unless the curse was faltering in places, which was looking increasingly possible. It would explain the questions, and the anger, if, indeed, she remembered - but perhaps he would be able to weave through it. He had been obsessively running through the possible scenarios of that conversation for the last two weeks - the exercise had lost most of its painful edge since those times he used to perform it, when he believed her dead. He had, of course, done it innumerable times anyway, which had felt like the mental equivalent of trying to saw off a finger with a butter knife. Messy, slow, and ultimately neither effective, nor satisfying.

" - And did you do something to him? The man I was engaged to?"

Gold's eyebrows shot up in confusion, and he tried to clear his head. What _had_ he done with him? He couldn't quite recall - he was fairly certain he had simply teleported him somewhere, turning his sword into a rose to ironically offer to Belle. He wanted to smile at the memory, but thought better of it for the time being. He hadn't been very careful with where he had expelled the offending cretin - for all he knew, he had dropped him in a lake, or embedded him in a rock.

" - I'm not quite sure what you're asking" he improvised, stalling.

Some of the steel had crept back into her voice.

" - Did you harm him?"

That, he could answer with a certain degree of confidence.

" - I don't believe so."

She seemed to mull that over.

" - Did you fire me?" At that, Gold wondered whether his internal organs were trying to rearrange themselves in a new and interesting pattern that would enable his heart to more quickly launch itself into his throat. He tried to swallow it back, failed, tried to talk around it, failed again, and looked at her helplessly.

Ella gave him another narrow-eyed look, then her face fell in an expression of such profound, betrayed sadness that he stopped breathing.

" - That's all I needed to know." He was horrified to see that her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. She was turning away.

He wasn't quite cognizant of how he got there, but he found himself between her and the door, only very distantly surprised by the fact that this was the second time he was trying to stop her from leaving, out of three visits, which made for rather bad odds.

" - I believe the story is a little more complicated than that.." he began but she gestured him into silence.

" - There had been something... between us. Did you..." her voice faltered. "... throw me out?" He was so stunned that he simply failed to move, or answer. She had maneuvered around him and was almost out of the shop, one final hurt look thrown at him, as if in confirmation, when he finally shook off the paralysis and did the simplest thing he could think of. He raised his cane and pressed its tip against the door, effectively keeping it shut and barring her passage at the same time. She whirled around, stomped towards him, and stood not inches away, bristling like a ball of lightning, index finger pointing accusatorily to the middle of his chest.

" – You, sir, are- …are-" she sputtered in outrage, but he caught her pointing hand, and, ignoring the astonishment spreading on her features, ran his thumb against the palm to relax the digits and laid it flat against his heart, his own hand covering hers. He could have sworn he felt the warmth of her skin through the fabric of his suit. Which, of course, was pure fancy, the damn thing was high grade wool and might as well have been plated armor for all its sensitivity.

" - I drove you away..." he said very quietly. She was about to respond, when her eyes, still brimming with surprise and some other emotion fluttering in them, were drawn to some object in the depth of his store. He followed her gaze but couldn't identify what had caught her attention. She looked back at him, and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw two sides, two distinct beings battling inside of her for control. Her eyebrows knitted together in pain, and she brought her other hand to her nose. The fingers came away bloody.

" - Oh bugger" she said, incongruously, then flipped her head back to stave off the nosebleed. He noticed how the movement bared the long delicate curve of her neck, and considered the merits of smacking himself with his own cane, then he was fishing for a handkerchief, pleased to find a silk one clean and neatly folded in his breast pocket. Who would have known that vanity was such a practical trait. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her nose.

" - I dink der's someding seriously wrong wid me" she announced, matter-of-factly. Gold nodded grimly, things falling into place.

" - We need to get you away from here, dear."

She gave him a look that was both puzzled and suspicious - how she had managed the expression with her head reclined that way was anyone's guess - and hesitated.

" - I promise I will..." he mulled that one over. What could he promise? "...satisfy your curiosity" he trailed. That seemed vague enough. Then, to his absolute astonishment, he realized that she had clearly taken it into an unexpected direction, because the part of her cheeks visible above the cloth was blushing bright crimson, as were her ears. She gave him a look that was mostly horrified embarrassment, but there was also a twinkle of rueful amusement in her eyes, and he was smirking at her teasingly, which, at least, distracted him from his own suddenly accelerated heart rate.

" - Much as I enjoy this exercise in mutual mortification, my dear, would you mind if we took it somewhere else?"

She nodded.

" - Not de hospital."

" - As you wish."

They found themselves outside in a murky fog that had settled over the town. She carefully peeled the handkerchief from her face, gingerly touching her nose, but the bleeding had stopped. She looked at the cloth, then up at him, clearly wondering what to do with the soiled tissue.

" - Keep it" he offered, a little ironically.

She stuffed it in her pocket.

" - How about... dinner?" he suddenly found himself saying.

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

" - You do have to eat" he retorted in response, something of his other mask mingling with the words and making them more of a taunt than an invitation. He had no doubt she would refuse, of course, so what was the harm?

" - What if this starts again and I bleed all over the food? Or the utensils?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but then caught himself quickly. She hadn't said no. Of course, he had a pretty good idea of what had caused the nosebleed, so there was little risk of that repeating, for now. He couldn't tell her that without getting back to dangerous waters, so he simply shrugged.

" - To Hell with them."

" - Oh?" Something devious had crept into her face, but she didn't smile. "Will you be taking them home with you?"

Gold stared at her, his mind first drawing a blank, and then he threw his head back and laughed, genuinely, for the first time in years.

" - Whatever gave me away?" He was still chuckling.

" - Besides the fact that you seem to put everything in terms of a deal?"

She was smiling slightly. Perhaps, just perhaps, they had somehow maneuvered out of the dangerous zone, and were on safer grounds. If so, he might have to reconsider the universe's propensity for benevolence. He decided to test it.

" - And here I was, working so hard to hide the forked tail."

Ella gave him an impenetrable look and then, craning her neck theatrically, looked behind him.

" - Wherever _do_ you hide it?" she looked up at him, very clearly trying not to laugh, but then her blush was giving her away.

He looked around, pasting a contemplative expression on his face.

" - Are you sure this is an adequate place to have _that_ ... discussion?" he asked with mock seriousness.

She kept it together for all of two seconds, snorted in an effort to contain her laugh, then was holding her hand to her nose, eyes huge with alarm. He shook his head.

" - Your nose appears to have recovered from its earlier outburst, dear. So, dinner?"

" - What's the catch?" That suspicious look again.

" - Should there be one?" he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, but was smiling.

" - Are you not afraid I'll go postal in public?" there was some of the earlier darkness in her question, and he suddenly had the feeling that his answer would determine their following trajectory.

" - Oh, I don't know, M... Ella." He corrected himself, relishing the flavor of the name almost as much as the little shiver he noticed went through her at the sound of it on his lips. Well, she had explicitly told him to use it, so he was in his right. "What particular brand of insanity do you have in mind?"

She exhaled, and suddenly relaxed.

" - Mr Gold, I accept your invitation" she said formally, her soft accent suddenly a little more pronounced. He offered his arm, and she snaked hers through it, and for once the world didn't come crashing down on their heads, and nothing catastrophic happened, so they walked up the street, excruciatingly aware of each other's proximity, and disappeared in the fog bank.


	12. Chapter 12: From When You Knew Me

**Ok folks, if this has typos, sorry - posting this while traveling. Reviewers - thank you so much, you all are awesome and make my day. Keep at it ;)**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 12**

**In which layers and lairs should not be confused**

**_"Before the endgame, the Gods have placed the middle game. " -Siegbert Tarrasch_  
**

The eerie fog had condensed, enclosing them in a cold, damp silence, to the point where Ella could no longer distinguish the outlines of the outside world. Objects appeared out of it suddenly, as if created on the spur of the moment by an invisible entity – the trunk of a tree, a brick wall, a streetlight – and disappeared as quickly, swallowed back into the amorphous gray mist. The only thing that seemed to have any kind of permanence was her own breath, the sound of their footsteps, and the feel of her companion's arm beneath her fingers. For some unexplainable reason, she wanted to tell him to stop horsing around and turn off the fog-effect, as if he was that invisible entity manipulating the weather. The thought was funny, and she smiled quietly to herself, glancing at him sideways from under her lashes. He was looking straight ahead, but a small smile was playing on his lips, and that made the illusion that he was, in fact, responsible for the fog bank that much more convincing.

Perhaps because of the fog, she couldn't quite feel the ground under her feet as if it too was made of the same immaterial substance as the world outside. Nor was her mind working properly, or at least, in the way that passed for proper these days – she felt weightless and unfocused, but for the first time unburdened by the ill-formed memories that occasionally percolated to the surface of her consciousness, and equally unfettered by the future. She was simply there, in suspended animation, in the middle of the strange fog that seemed to preclude the possibility or relevance of a world beyond the few meters that made up the space around them.

" – Where are we going?" she asked, and her voice sounded oddly muffled.

He turned to her, the earlier soft smile suddenly turning into something sharper, and her heart responded with a loud thump.

" – Are you afraid I might use this opportunity and … drag you into my lair?" he teased, his accent thicker, with a strange cadence that gave the joke an unexpected edge.

Ella realized a little helplessly that there was something about the man's humor that simply took her over, stripped her of will and common sense, and made her laugh despite herself, and there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it. So she harrumphed, trying to be careful not to blow too much air through her nose, which was still tingling alarmingly, and gave him a sly sideways look.

" – Oh? I've never been to a lair. How does one go about procuring one in Storybrooke?" This dance between them felt exquisitely familiar, as if they had choreographed its steps many times.

" - It came with the job description, dear" he smiled, although she noted the slight hesitation, a fleeting glimpse of surprise in his eyes, as if he had not fully expected her to follow his lead quite so effortlessly.

" - So lairs are part of your real-estate empire too?"

He chuckled.

" - Sadly, they are not as profitable. Deplorable creature comforts, high clean-up costs. All those innocent victims make a terrible mess, I'm afraid."

She meditated on that.

" - I take it innocent victims don't come included?"

He gave her a look that seemed a bit on the carnivorous side.

" - You, my dear, are showing entirely too much interest in the mechanics of lair rental." He paused. "Are you in the market for one?"

" - What do I need to qualify?" she retorted.

He seemed to reflect on that.

" - You would have to be a monster, I believe."

" - Oh, and what does that entail?"

" - Well, bloodthirstiness is, I'm afraid, a must. You also must demonstrate a tendency towards evil deeds, and a taste for hoarding expensive objects. Keeping your victims' bones scattered about is also a highly desirable trait." He pretended to reflect. "And you have to be spectacularly revolting so that your mere sight inspires … _fear_."

Ella affected deep concentration.

" - So, let me see if I quite understood you. I have to be a mean-spirited, blood-drinking, slovenly pack-rat with poor personal hygiene?"

The man actually snorted, and Ella gave him a lopsided smirk.

" - That about sums it up. So, I'm afraid you just don't have the necessary attributes" he summarized, quickly regaining his composure.

She sized him up demonstratively, and he raised an eyebrow in question.

" - Something troubling you, dear?"

" - I just don't think you qualify for a lair either" she shrugged.

" - Oh, and why wouldn't I?"

She tried not to smile.

" - Well, for one, you're clearly overdressed."

He considered it.

" - I don't always wear a suit."

Intrigued, Ella attempted to imagine him in something other than a suit, didn't succeed, so tried to imagine him without the suit and immediately felt her cheeks flush bright red. Judging by the quiet chortle, he had laid out the verbal trap with perfect awareness of her mind's apparent propensity to gleefully plunge into the gutter at the slightest provocation. She gave him the stink eye. That only seemed to exacerbate the smirking phenomenon. One day, she promised herself, she would get through the entirety of one of those teasing matches without getting flustered.

Meanwhile, they had walked out of the fog, and stood in front of a long one-story building. Based on the sign, its contents promised Indian cuisine.

" - I hope you like spicy food" Gold offered, in a tone that did not much leave room for debate over its merits. He opened the door for her and she drew in the delicious exotic smells, easing herself into the warm soft glow of the restaurant's lobby. She remembered passing the place several times, but its windows had been covered with black plastic, and she had not realized the restaurant was, in fact, open. Apparently, neither had most residents of the town, because it was nearly deserted, only a few tables occupied along the edges of the spacious eating area.

A waiter that looked like a fairytale dwarf cross-dressed as a pirate ushered them to one of the small tables in the corner of the room, and Gold pulled the chair out for Ella before sitting himself. Ella picked up the menu, leafing through the arcane dishes until she got to soups and broths. Since the psych ward, she didn't seem to stomach solid food particularly well, and this simplified her choices if she wanted to eat out. She settled on something called Daal Shorba, and folded her menu. Gold hadn't touched his, and she wasn't surprised that when the waiter came back for their order, the pawnbroker simply asked for the usual.

The waiter reappeared almost immediately with a clay pot of steaming fragrant liquid and two minuscule cups that matched the pot. The liquid turned out to be strongly spiced syrupy sweet tea, and Ella was burying her nose in the cup and inhaling the fragrance with something very close to rapture. It tasted as good as it smelled, and she closed her eyes and quietly moaned in pleasure before she realized that her companion was staring at her with acute interest. When she offered him a slightly guilty smile, he returned it with one of his own sharp grins, but not before she noticed what could only be mild embarrassment, as if she had caught him doing something not altogether appropriate.

" - I wouldn't have pegged you for someone with a sweet tooth" she teased.

" - Only when the occasion warrants" he retorted, the affable mask back on.

She contemplated that, but before she could come up with a clever reply he was steering the conversation into a new direction.

" – Would you indulge me by answering a question?"

She searched his face for a clue as to what this sudden development could be about. The affable mask was still on, but a slight worry line was creasing his brow, and she noticed a tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there before. Ella was suddenly struck by the fact that his face wore the imprint of seemingly incompatible emotions – the starbursts of laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes jarred strangely with the hard vertical lines that bracketed his mouth, as if grief, anger, and laughter had each carved out their separate territories, but managed to come together harmoniously in the end.

" – Ella?" The velvety voice jolted her out of her hypnotic state, and she met his gaze, a little startled.

" – I'm sorry, I…"

" – … were distracted, as it appears" he finished for her, and she couldn't tell if he sounded pleased or exasperated. Or both.

" – You wanted to ask me a question" she recalled, raising a finger triumphantly.

" – Indeed. Have any of your memories come back?" He watched her over folded fingers, chin propped on his knuckles. Trying not to get caught up in watching his hands, Ella frowned, turning her gaze inward, and tried to determine what was safe to tell. She searched for her other half outside the fence, but the entity was unexpectedly placid, lounging leisurely within arm's reach, just on the other side. It was, for the first time that Ella could remember, perfectly content to just … be. She shrugged to herself in wonder, and returned her eyes to the pawnbroker.

" – I don't know if there is a simple answer to that" she offered.

" – There never is, dearie" he smirked, but his eyes were still trained on her, expectant.

" – I seem to have two sides of me." She couldn't see what the harm would be in telling him. If he thought she was crazy, and ran away screaming, at least he had a nasty, cold, and foggy run ahead of him.

" – And what two sides are those?"

Ella thought. After visiting the man who called himself her father, she had made the only possible decision she could without losing her mind. Or what was left of it. She decided that all words were lies. Maybe some of them were only part lies, and others were only part truths, and certainly not all were uttered with the intention of lying, but words were like the pretty decorations on a Christmas tree – they didn't change the ugly reality that the tree had been a sacrifice and was dying, or that the tree was in fact not a tree at all, but an elaborate work of wrought plastic. She was beginning to understand her inner monster better, which didn't bother with fancy lies any more than it did with convincing truths. She would, therefore, judge people by what they did, which is why she didn't believe that what her father and everyone else seemed to think about this man was true. Yet, it wasn't a lie, either, which got her back to the point that words were merely pretty baubles to be cheaply exchanged, just like she had been at one time.

She didn't have a good or logical answer to his question – she only had a set of nonsensical verbal drawings she showed herself to make sense of things – and if that meant he thought she was nuts, then that was something he would have to live with. She, for one, knew she was, so there was no trouble there.

" – There is the cardboard side" she began, looking into space at nothing in particular. "That's my memories here, in Storybrooke, my life. But it's missing a large piece, which is the piece everyone seems to want to remind me about. And then, there is the side behind the fence. That one doesn't remember anything from Storybrooke except certain people. And it tells stories that make no sense, yet it's as if _making_ sense is not what's important about them." She looked up at him, and shrugged. She thought his expression was odd, a mix of surprise bordering on awe, and deep satisfaction, almost like pride. Then it was gone, replaced by the pleasantly polite expression once again.

" – You think I'm crazy" she concluded, and the thought didn't frighten her anymore.

He smiled, but it was gone quickly, something dark and almost sorrowful taking its place.

" – As a matter of fact, I think you are saner than most."

Before she could begin to wonder about the comment, the waiter materialized again with a tray. Their food had arrived.

The next twenty minutes were spent masticating. Her soup turned out delicious, even though the spiciness took some time getting used to, but eventually settled and spread in a kind of internal warmth that seeped into her bones and promptly turned them soft and pliable. Gold's order included several multi-colored things in various stages of liquefaction, which exuded a wonderful spicy steam. It also included a side of little golden round things which she eyed covetously because they looked adorably edible, until he offered her one. She chewed with unabashed pleasure.

" – Tell me something from when you knew me. What was I like?" she ventured, feeling oddly giddy from the spices and heat.

" – What would you like to know?"

" – If I knew, why would I ask you?" Apparently, that had struck him as hilarious because he was chuckling again.

He thought for a long time, strange emotions passing over his face like clouds in the sky, and she was content to mindlessly watch them.

" – You told me once that love was layered" he suddenly said, his eyes fixed on hers, all the comfortable drowsiness gone, and she felt intensely alert, as if someone had doused her with cold water. She thought about it.

" – That's a silly thing to say" she concluded.

He gave her an impenetrable look.

" – How so?'

She shrugged.

" – Many things are layered. Is it like an onion, so each peeled layer makes you cry a bit more? Or is it like layered cake, so if you want to get to the gooey part you need to deal with the spongy bits, too?"

Gold looked at her in utter consternation, and then burst out laughing, then tried to reign it in, but failed, and couldn't stop until he started coughing. Ella considered what she said, and, of course, turned bright red, just to be on the safe side.

" – I… ehem…" then he was at it again. She thought harder, and then realized what the unintentional double entendre had been, and buried her face in her hands with a groan.

Apparently, the commotion made the waiter come out of hiding, and he swiftly carried their dishes away and reappeared with the check, which he handed to Gold without even a glance at Ella.

" – I believe we are being asked to leave" Gold explained, still chortling.

She was sill blazing like the Grand Inquisition was having a rally, and avoiding his gaze.

They walked out, the fog encasing them in its blanket again, and strolled down in a strangely tense silence, but her arm had found its way around his once again, as if this was exactly where it was meant to be all along. There was an odd tension in his gait, his eyes seemingly fixed on anything but her, and for some reason she found that bothersome. Before she could seriously contemplate the source of the emotion, they were in front of the entrance to her building.

" – I believe this is where you live, my dear" he said, his eyes suddenly locking with hers, that tension dancing in them like tiny will-o'-the-wisps. The thing on the other side of the fence woke from its lethargic slumber and was pacing, agitated, in the dim valleys of the part of her mind she didn't quite control. She looked up at the man standing in front of her, her thoughts insistently coming back to the story from Henry's book – there had been an insight buried deep in it that she had missed, and remembering it felt crucially important. He raised his hand, slowly, and his fingers caught a loose curl that was bouncing on the side of her face. He twined it around his finger and was tucking it back, his index tracing the sensitive skin along the shell of her ear, and sending little electric shivers down her spine. The illusion of floating returned, and Ella was no longer completely sure where her body ended and the rest of the world began, as if she too was part night, trees, brick walls, woven from the light of street lamps and curtained windows, her life pulsing in each minuscule droplet that made up the mist. She looked at the man facing her and smiled, with relief, at the sudden realization that he too was life twinned outward and mirrored back, and that through all the permutations of this world, the innumerable forms that multiplied in its complexity, this would not change.

They were standing mere inches away, and she realized a little dimly that his face was so close she could feel his breath on her skin, except that the smell of spice and burning juniper clouded her consciousness and mangled her thoughts, and her own breath came in short little bursts. Then he leaned in, fingers burying in her hair, a thumb resting against the curve of her cheek bone. His lips were separated from hers by a minuscule space that suddenly felt infinite, like the distance to a star. And so Ella reached her hands into his hair, pulled his head towards hers, and bridged the gap. "Soft..." was her last coherent thought, before all capacity for reason or language fled, but despite of it they seemed to understand each other perfectly. He was the one to break the kiss and Ella noticed, in a kind of amazed stupor, that the man looking at her suddenly seemed a little disheveled, which, of course, never happened. She felt irrationally pleased with herself - his hair was tousled, his tie was off-kilter, and his breath, like her own, had become ragged. But before she could contemplate it further, she found herself lost in his gaze, the color of tea or amber, the delicious viscosity that surely spelled death for the unwitting moth that flew into the flames of a candle, although that made little sense because it mixed metaphors, and didn't change the feeling of falling in the pit of her stomach, and then he was kissing her again and she was airborne and neither here nor there…

An odd creaking drew her attention, something coming from above them. They broke their embrace at the same time, both looking upward, into the branches of the ancient oak tree that leaned into the façade of the building. Only vaguely aware of why she was doing it, Ella pressed her hands to her mouth, and only when the strange muffled sound escaped from her lips did she realize that she was trying to stifle a scream. The mist had parted, and there, right across from Ella's windows, gently swaying in the soft breeze and twirling around its axis, hung a body.


	13. Chapter 13: Low Hanging Fruit

**Chapter 13**

**In which the main figurant is a tree.**

**TREE****, n. A tall vegetable intended by nature to serve as a penal apparatus, though through a miscarriage of justice most trees bear only a negligible fruit, or none at all. ****(**_**Devil's Dictionary, **_**Ambrose Bierce)**

_" **Block**: Black for you!__** Death**: It becomes me well." __(Block & Death playing chess,_**_ The Seventh Seal, _**_Ingmar Bergman_**_)_**

The initial shock passed, and before she could reflect on the wisdom of her actions, Ella's feet were carrying her towards the entrance. The tree was too old and too tall to climb without some serious equipment: its lowest limbs branched off at the level of the second floor, some twenty feet above ground. If the hangman (or hangwoman) was dead-set, so to speak, on hanging from this specific tree, the easiest point of access would be her apartment, where one of the thick sturdy branches ran parallel to the wall, a few feet below the cornice. Which meant that someone had snuck into her apartment while she was gone, climbed out of her window, latched onto the branch, tied a rope to it, then put a noose around his or her neck and went dangling. Which was, all in all, mind-bogglingly rude. Fuming at the violation of her personal space, Ella struggled to unlock the front door, but the key seemed to have spontaneously reshaped itself for a different keyhole. She growled at it in frustration, but then found a hand covering her own oddly shaking fingers, and she was being spun around to face the pawnbroker. He cupped her face with his hands and gently turned it to meet his gaze.

"- May I ask where you are storming off to, my dear?" Ella gestured towards the offending object above them as if it provided all the explanation one could possibly desire. Gold appeared unmoved by the argument.

"- Why are we just standing here? There is a dead body hanging across from my window..."

"- Ella." The velvety lilt of his voice was unexpectedly soothing. "Do slow down." He gestured upward with a brief motion of his head. "I doubt it will be going anywhere anytime soon. How will our presence in your apartment improve the situation?"

Ella thought for a few moments, until her mind's frenetic flouncing quieted down, and was replaced with a feeling of unexpected clarity. What had she been thinking? With one of those unpleasant realizations that are the mental equivalent of finding that a stranger intruded upon your habitation while you were away, and, to add insult to injury, has helped himself to the contents of your fridge, and used your bathroom for gods only knew what, Ella became aware that the shock had temporarily dislodged her reasonable half in favor of the unreasonable one. And apparently her better half was in the business of acting first, and regretting later. Back at the helm, she reconsidered her actions: rushing off and bursting into the apartment would likely implicate her and her companion with whatever happened up in that tree. That train of thought brought her to another equally startling, and doubly unpleasant realization: she and the pawnbroker were, as far as she knew, the only ones with a key to the place - Ella because she lived there, and Gold because he owned it. Which meant that whatever Sheriff Swan would think of the hangman's choice of gallows, the two of them would seem, at the very least, suspicious. She gave her companion a brief assessing look - now, it was unlikely that Sheriff Swan would turn her attention to Gold, not so much, she thought, because the good sheriff believed him incapable of stringing someone up by the neck if he thought the situation warranted, but because it was inconceivable that the man would be so sloppy about it. If Gold wanted someone to disappear, Ella decided, he would not leave a low hanging fruit - literally - in what could practically be conceived as his own backyard. Now, the same could not be said about Ella, or at least about what Sheriff Swan was likely to assume about Ella. With the tarnished reputation of the resident lunatic, she would be the most logical person to suspect.

Some of her thoughts must have reflected on her face, because Gold let his hands rest on her shoulders and gave her a quick, intense look.

"- We need to call Sheriff Swan." He watched her reaction carefully, then, as if reading the expression she, herself, couldn't see, nodded once. "You were with me all evening, and for most of it, we had witnesses. This is the most logical course of action."

It was Ella's turn to nod. She was suddenly glad that after days of Ruby's nagging, she had folded and purchased a cheap prepaid cellphone. Now she fished it out of her pocket and handed it to the pawnbroker. For some reason, the thought of him having a cellphone of his own was simply inconceivable. He punched in the numbers for what she thought was the police station, and watched his face draw into its standard hard and opaque mask as they waited for Emma Swan to pick up. After several rings, a metallic female voice responded.

"- Sheriff Swan, this is Mr Gold. We have a situation here which requires your professional expertise." He listened briefly, telegraphed the address, listened some more. Something Emma Swan said made the pawnbroker chuckle, although the smile never reached his eyes. "It appears so, Ms Swan." He disconnected.

Ella looked up again, wanting to convince herself, absurdly, that the hangman had been a figment of her imagination, a play of light and shadows. It was impossible to get a good view from their vantage point - all she could see was a humanoid shape swaying slightly above their heads, on one of the last sturdy branches before the top. She watched the building facade, looking for lit windows, but found only few, all of them on the lower floors.

She turned to Gold, her eyebrows knit together in puzzlement.

" - Why did no one call the police earlier? How is it possible that no one noticed?"

They were both looking up at the building. Gold began pointing to the different windows.

" - The apartment you are renting is technically the attic of the building - there are only two units on that floor, as you probably noticed, and your neighbors' windows face the opposite side." His pointed finger traveled to the floor below. "There is no-one in this middle apartment, it needs serious repairs and I have not had a chance to get it done." He pointed out the two sets of windows on each side. "These are occupied, but notice how they wouldn't have a direct line of sight onto the top of the tree, unless someone leaned out of the window and looked up. Most of the windows in the building are awning style, which would make it difficult to look upward through them."

Ella followed his finger, nodding.

" - Well, you and I noticed it" she shrugged. "And we were not in the building."

" - The fog could have hidden it from casual glances. And you would be surprised how rarely people look up." He paused for a few second. "You and I stood more or less directly underneath it for quite some time. The creaking of the rope is what gave it away." Ella looked up at him and despite the profound inappropriateness of the moment, vividly recalled their earlier exchange. Some deeply perverse part of her mind insisted that, replicability being the foundation of all objective knowledge, she still lacked sufficient information to properly assess the experience, and demanded further data collection. The harder she tried to bring her mind to order, the more it bombarded her inner sight with possible variations on the theme, making each new iteration a little less demure. Had they not been otherwise occupied, she reminded herself frantically, she would have only discovered the hangman once she got up to her apartment.

Or _they_ would have, her mind supplied helpfully. By that point Ella was losing the inner struggle and blushing desperately, and at Gold's inevitable chuckle - he was nothing if not observant - groaned, and buried her face in the lapel of his suit. She felt an arm snake around her shoulders, a hand lightly stroking her hair. She relaxed into him, realizing that the tension in her neck had been sending smoke signals to her brain that the latter had, up until now, successfully ignored, and the aggrieved muscles were threatening to mutiny.

" - Ah, a woman after my own heart. Never deterred by the grim reality for too long."

" - There must be a name for my condition" she mumbled, her voice muffled by the expensive fabric.

" - There is, and you best be careful, dearie, I hear it spreads through contact."

She snorted into the suit, and shook her head in mock disapproval, but somehow the banter made the icy ache that was clutching her stomach and knotting her muscles loosen its grip. She disengaged from him, her ears prickling at the sound of a car engine in the distance.

" - Let's not give Sheriff Swan any more reason to arrest us."

The smile he shot her was entirely too private to be helpful in keeping her mind in check.

" - Just because it hangs from a tree doesn't mean it's mistletoe" she scolded him sagely.

" - Gallows humor, dear?" They looked at each other and, to Ella's deep shame, cracked up simultaneously.

" - Oh, gods have mercy, we're monsters" she quipped, a strident, shaky laugh clawing its way to the surface and coloring her voice.

" - You just might qualify for that lair yet..."

The police cruiser pulled up parallel to the curb, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Emma Swan unfold her tall leather-clad frame out of the driver seat. The sheriff's eyes went from Gold to Ella then back to the pawnbroker, puzzled disapproval drawing her features in her patent expression. If looks could browbeat you to death, Emma's passage would be marked by a string of casualties, as well as a large number of concussions and welts, Ella reflected.

" - What is going on?" the sheriff wanted to know.

Gold simply pointed upward. Emma squinted and then let out a low whistle.

" - Holy sh-" she swore under her breath. "How long ago did you find it?" Gold consulted his expensive looking watch.

" - I would say about 20 minutes" he approximated.

Emma gave him a questioning look, clearly speculating about what they had been doing outside of Ella's building for that long, then glanced at Ella, and must have added things together. The sum total resulted in a slight variation on the usual expression. Ella weathered the look of narrow-eyed disapproving puzzlement without batting an eyelash, so Sheriff Swan refocused it on Gold, who smiled politely.

" - You'll both have to come to the station and give a deposition, once we deal with this mess" the woman intoned dryly, then was on the phone with the fire department.

The fire engine arrived with a cacophony of noises and lights, and Emma Swan rolled out the yellow crime tape, sealing the scene and ushering Ella and her companion to its perimeter.

" - Whose apartment windows are those?" the sheriff asked Gold, but Ella stepped forward.

" - Mine" she said firmly, and the blond focused on her with a new, distinctly unpleasant interest.

" - You have the keys?" she asked, and Ella handed her the set.

" - Wait here."

Then the sheriff was gone, and Ella and Gold watched the fire fighters hoist the ladder up against the building wall. Some of the tenants, attracted by the siren call of misfortune, spilled out of the building, a small crowd of gawkers gathering at the edges of the police tape, their heads tilted upward to watch the firefighters work. Quiet exclamations and whispers passed from one observer to another. They gave Gold and Ella a large breadth, occasionally casting alarmed glances in their direction.

Some kind of commotion started between the firefighters up the ladder. One of the men up in the tree let out a string of foul curses.

" - Let's just lower it in rappel" he called out to his colleagues in a gravely baritone.

"It?" Ella thought, and turned to the pawnbroker in puzzlement. His face remained inscrutable, only the tightness of his jaw giving away any kind of emotional involvement with the surrounding Bedlam. Did bodies become "its" once death was established, their differentiation by age and gender losing its relevance? Was the remaining husk truly just an object - once devoid of life becoming as prosaic as a stool, or a block of wood? Then why, Ella thought, were boats and cars occasionally referred to as "she," as if their inanimate nature did not prevent their owners from attributing to them a life and a personality?

She was distracted from her musing by another loud curse and a yell from up high. The whistling noise of rope against metal marked a man's descent, vertiginously long jumps along the building wall interrupted only when he paused to push himself off the brick facade. The firefighter was holding on to a man-sized bundle, and Ella was surprised at how effortlessly he supported its weight with one arm only. Then he stood down on the pavement, unceremoniously dumped the bundle on the ground next to him, and began unhooking the karabiner from his harness, while simultaneously trying to light a cigarette.

" - We're done here" he yelled out at the man still above them, and his colleague scampered agilely down the ladder. Without as much as a glance to the body, the men began packing up.

Sheriff Swan emerged from the building and headed straight for the bundle of black plastic on the ground, but not before she threw Ella a long impenetrable look.

Ella shivered, and huddled into her coat, her brain refusing to understand the strange ballet that the people around her were performing - the deep lack of interest that the firefighters exhibited for the body, Sheriff Swan's hard gaze on her, the gawkers' whispers and meaningfully exchanged glances. She craned her neck, trying to see what the sheriff was doing with the prostrate shape, but her view was obscured by the broad yellow-clad backs of the men packing up their gear.

By that point, the crowd of onlookers had swelled considerably. The sudden flashes of the camera announced the arrival of the Daily Mirror flock of buzzards, followed shortly by a long slick black car.

" - I demand to know what is the meaning of this." The mayor's voice cut through the ambient noise, people scattering out of her way and trying to make themselves blend with the surroundings.

Ella looked up at the pawnbroker, but his gaze was focused intently on the ground, where the body was lying.

" - What is it?" she whispered to him.

" - I believe it is Regina" he answered, and Ella thought at first that he misunderstood her question. Then the firefighters were moving out, and she saw what was in the now uncovered bundle. She wasn't alone, judging by the shocked gasps from the other spectators.

The red flashing lights illuminated a human shape, which was immediately recognizable - the same black hair in a slick layered bob cut, the same make-up, lush and dark, the same unmistakable anthracite gray suit. Even the face, Ella thought, bore an uncanny resemblance to the mayor. There was a noose around the figure's neck - the firefighters had cut cleanly through the rope, and its severed end coiled on the pavement, wicking up water from a nearby puddle.

Ella fixed her eyes on the figure's face trying to make sense of how its plastic perfection had been disfigured, for, of course, she had realized by that point that the figure was a mannequin, albeit one that was clearly older - not the stylized bald-pated humanoids that now served to display clothes, but the kind she had seen in older magazines and period photographs, life-sized and life-like plastic dolls with hair, eyelashes and false glass eyes that created the illusion of following you around the room. The doll's face had been masterfully painted to create a perfectly realistic death mask - but not simply that. What the uncannily life-like artwork seemed to depict were signs of torture - the mannequin's bear arms were covered in painted bruises and burns, its ankles and wrists were bound with plastic cable ties. The face was the most gruesome, however, and Ella found herself morbidly fascinated by the almost perfect simulacrum of violence. The plastic eyes sockets gaped emptily, gauged out with a sharp tool, the edges painted to represent ragged flesh. The corners of the mouth also sported long red-encrusted incisions, extending it in a perfect imitation of a Glasgow smile.

Emma Swan was crouching by the figure, a ziplock bag in one hand and pincers in the other, removing something from the fake corpse. She called one of the men over, and he helped her ease the mannequin into a clear sheet of cellophane, but before they could re-wrap the gruesome piece, Regina was upon them.

" - What the hell is go-" she began, then simply stood, staring at the ground where her reflection mirrored her death back at her, the Glasgow leer almost mocking.

" - Sheriff Swan-" The mayor's voice faltered.

" - Go home, Madam Mayor. This is a police investigation, so let me do my job."

" - This-? Where-?" The sheriff ignored her, and finished sealing the evidence. The man in the firefighter uniform helped her hoist it into the cruiser's trunk.

" - You two are coming with me" the sheriff turned, her eyes lingering on Ella with focused speculation.

" - Sheriff Swan, shouldn't you be asking us where we were this evening?" Gold reminded her, ignoring Regina's expression of vacant shock, and the sheriff tight-lipped grimness.

" - The request to let me do my job extends to you as well" she cut him off, dryly.

Ella cast a quick glance towards the trunk of the cruiser, but then her eyes met Regina's and underneath the shock she thought she saw something dark and malignant flash through the mayor's chocolate brown eyes. "At the end of the day" it seemed to say "we shall see who hangs." Then the mayor was walking away briskly, and Ella was scooting into the cruiser's back seat, followed by Gold. The view from the back was checkered with the metal grid that separated them from the front cabin, and Ella felt her heart sink. Alibi or no alibi, as far as gruesome artwork went, she was - according to the evidence from a past she couldn't remember - a specialist.

* * *

**Folks, as usual, thank you so much for reading, and sorry for the hiatus. Real life and all that. As always, your reviews and comments make me happy, and keep me writing so don't hold back now ;) Also, if you have ideas and suggestions, let me know. Next chapter will involve Gold's POV so might take a little longer to write. But you'll get some theories about the curse to sweeten the deal.**


	14. Chapter 14: But Then Again, Who Does?

******Sorry for the long delay in posting, it's been a hectic week. On the upside, this chapter is almost completely from Gold's perspective. **

******(Oh, and if you find the giant, ostrich sized Easter egg, PM or leave a comment and you will get the proverbial virtual cookie :-D)**

******Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**In which Mr Gold considers the difference between curses and blessings**

_"**Every blessing ignored becomes a curse." - Paulo Coelho  
**_

"_**There is no remorse like a remorse of chess. It is a curse upon man. There is no happiness in chess." - H.G. Wells**_

Sitting on the narrow bench that lined the institutional gray wall outside of the sheriff's office, his hands resting on the cane propped between his legs, and his head leaned against the hard concrete surface behind him, Gold watched the cracks in the ceiling plaster. They crisscrossed the surface in arcane hieroglyphics, like the runic writings of some old dead language, its meaning lost to the living, and the voices that spoke it forgotten. His mind distracted itself by creating order out of chaos, stringing the zigzagging fissures into patterns, then letting them disintegrate back into gibberish. He looked at his watch, the third time in the last five minutes, but the hands moved like snails through molasses. Odd, he reflected, that since she entered back into his life, he spent an exceptional amount of time looking at the clock.

Sheriff Swan had insisted on interrogating them separately, and it was Belle's turn. '_Ella,'_ he corrected himself, and waited, not very patiently, listening to the muffled voices filter through the closed door. He could only distinguish their melodies, but not isolate the meaning.

He looked for something to pass the time, and his eyes fell on a stack of colored yellow handouts, an advertisement for a school play that the princeling must have left for his biological mother to distribute, so he picked one of them up, cleanly tore off a two-inch strip of paper to form a square, and began folding. He missed the mindless spinning of the wheel, the feel of wool or straw coiling under his fingers to form a new entity – whatever the thread was made of didn't matter much, really, as it was transmutation in both cases. His mind was at its clearest then, capable of unfolding itself into the future, and follow all the probable routes that events would take, different scenarios lacing and weaving on the horizon of possibilities until he selected the most beneficial one to follow.

_If this, then that_.

_If a, then b._

Perhaps tactics would overtake strategy when humans played against machines, but not when they played against other humans – machines, after all, were only capable of rational actions, while humans were mostly only capable of irrational ones, which they then spent a remarkable amount of time rationalizing.

He had folded the square of paper along several sharp angular lines, but it still could go a number of ways – a crane, a lily, a boat, perhaps, or something altogether different. He simply watched his fingers shape the paper with a will of their own, seeing where they would take the transformation, hoping that an insight might be hidden in the emergent form – a message in a bottle from some part of himself with which he was not, otherwise, on speaking terms.

Curses, Gold reflected, had a lot more in common with blessings than people realized, if only for the fact that both inevitably came with a price (what was the going rate of conversion these days?), and always seemed to be in excess of what one had bargained for. It should be of no surprise, then, that his curse – and it had been a nasty piece of work, to be sure – had turned out to be more than it appeared. He had used True Love as a solvent for its creation, ironically, perhaps, since True Love was said to break any curse. Yet, seemingly in mockery of all the petty notions and simplified truisms one might spew off on the topic, the curse threw into sharp relief the very nature of its foundation. He had no doubts, for example, that the two royal highnesses loved each other, despite their induced memory loss, but for all their furtive snogging and ensuing melodrama, the curse remained. That too was unsurprising – curses, after all, were like nested dolls – you could break one layer only to discover its replica, slightly altered, beneath. Which brought him to the original problem.

History, he knew, repeated itself with enviable regularity. His mind returned to the kiss he and Ella had shared earlier that evening. Just as before, she had breached that small gap which, in his final moment of hesitation, he had attempted to put between their lips, as irrationally as a drowning man trying to hold on to a straw, and with equal success. And just as before, he remained blessedly cursed. However, if their first kiss all those eons ago had clear curse-breaking potential – he'd had to catch himself to prevent the change - this time he remained unaffected. Although that, he reflected, was not entirely true, if not entirely untrue – the kiss certainly had its own kind of efficacy, but the effects had been of the distinctly non-mystical kind.

Gold exhaled sharply through his teeth, the sharp sibilant sound ricocheting down the empty hallway. Most of the time, he was quite successful at keeping himself in check, but here, alone and hopelessly bored, he found that mentally revisiting their moments of intimacy had decidedly uncomfortable, and distinctly untimely consequences. He pulled at his collar, his expensive tie suddenly constricting his throat, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, but that only seemed to exacerbate matters, so he focused his gaze on the partially folded origami. Of all the odd practices and habits this world had to offer, he had developed an unexpected affinity for this one – it had a certain elegance to it, and, like spinning, it gave his mind a temporary reprieve from itself.

His thoughts eventually returned to the current problem. After the kiss, nothing curse-shattering happened, and he had been relieved. At first. He even cursed himself - a funny exercise, in retrospect - for putting his elaborate plan at risk, but now, under the relentless pressure of his mind's internal calculus, he began to wonder if the blessing had not, in fact, been mixed.

Of course, he hadn't expected the main part of the curse to be affected - within the parameters specified a priori by the blood link, or genetic marker, or however this world chose to label lineages, it could only be broken by the direct extension of its principle ingredient. Which, considering Sheriff Swan's stubborn refusal, at least until now, to believe in anything that did not fit with her preconceived set of assumptions, or, more prosaically, to show any sort of sustained interest in anyone who could qualify as True Love material, boded badly for all of them. But this, in the end, did not bother him - he had no doubt that he would eventually manipulate events in the desired direction.

What irked him was, once again, the implacable logic of cause and effect. He might not have his powers in this world, but that did not suddenly absolve him from being Rumplestiltskin, with all that this entailed, nor did it excise the part of his personality that had developed as a result of playing host to the dark magic. In other words, _if_ _not b, then c. _Either Ella did not truly love him, or True Love was not what he thought it was, which, he supposed, boiled down to the same thing. Alternatively, the curse itself had _changed_, mutated in this world that twisted magic beyond recognition. Which could also mean that the very definition of what counted as True Love had altered. And therein lay the problem: the latter two options were vastly more alarming, but somehow more palatable than the first two. And thus, he found himself in the paradoxical quandary of wanting that which he should reject, and rejecting that which he should be hoping for.

The door to the sheriff's office opened, and Emma Swan gestured him inside. His eyes found Ella sitting on one of the yellow plastic chairs, re-reading her statement carefully before signing. She looked up and gave him a ghostly smile, and he noted for the first time the dark circles under her eyes, and the shadows under her cheekbones where her normally round cheeks had sunken in.

"- Are we done here, Ms Swan?"

The sheriff looked at him with barely concealed disapproval, and Gold realized that because he had gotten caught in the ongoing tug of war between Regina and Emma Swan, he was currently not on the latter's magnanimous side. Which meant that, although Ms Swan would probably not come after him directly, she could make Ella's life amply miserable.

" - Almost. Ms French, do you mind repeating where you were this afternoon?"

Ella sighed, but nodded.

"- I was at work, then I went home and changed, then I went to see Mr Gold in his shop..."

" - And what time was that?"

Ella shot Gold a quick look, then focused on her hands.

" - I left a little before 6pm."

" - Mr Gold, didn't you say that you two were scheduled to meet at 5pm? Where were you

between 4:30 and 5:45, Ms French?"

" - I don't believe we had a firm time scheduled, Sheriff Swan. We said after 5, when Ms French was done with her work" Gold retorted, slightly surprised at how effortlessly the lie flew off his lips. Why had she been late, in fact? Neither of them had mentioned it. His eyes found Ella's while the sheriff was leafing back through his statement, and she met his gaze, although he couldn't quite decipher the expression.

" - I was at home."

Sheriff Swan leaned back on her chair.

" - And what were you doing at home?"

Ella looked at her fingernails.

" – I was taking a bath. Then I was changing. I didn't do any of this."

Sheriff Swan was still trying to steamroll Ella with her stare, and Gold wondered, not for the first time, why the royal offspring was so damn preoccupied with things that were of absolutely no relevance to her. Most of the time, people became vehemently zealous about other people's lives when they couldn't handle their own. Legally, of course, there was nothing that the sheriff could pin on Ella and make it stick – the doll would not constitute a criminal threat to Regina - it was too vague to stand in court, even if the sheriff succeeded in taking the path of least resistance and accuse the usual suspect. Conversely, any allegation of vandalism would only happen if _he,_ the owner of the property – lawn and tree included – were to press charges.

But Ms Swan simply refused to let go, and Gold was beginning to understand why. Perhaps her Majesty was a better judge of character than he had originally given her credit for. She seemed to understand that Emma Swan needed an enemy to function, and in order to get the tenacious sheriff to stop biting at her heels, Regina had distracted her with something else. With practically the oldest trick in the book, no less: after all, nothing reestablishes friendship quite as quickly as a common enemy. Sadly, this was not a book Emma Swan had read. He thought back to how often the sheriff was seen with her son these days, and chuckled grimly. Her Majesty had even relaxed the death grip on her ward's extracurricular activities. No wonder Emma had swallowed the bait, together with hook and sinker.

Well, perhaps if she continued on that trajectory, Gold reflected, she'd eventually get to the fisherman. But if he was going to be honest with himself, he too had been unforgivably blind. He had certainly known from the beginning that Regina suddenly releasing her prisoner was a trap - the queen didn't so much as sneeze without an ulterior motive (usually, something unilaterally evil, like sprinkling innocent bystanders with pestilent snot). But for too long now he had been incapable of making himself care, and had let things escalate, too preoccupied with fixing the old wounds between Ella and himself. This was unfortunate, since he knew perfectly well that the girl was his weakness, and would likely be his undoing if he wasn't _prudent_. That she had come with a very carefully fabricated legend, which most of the town's feckless inhabitants were only too happy to gobble up, curse or no curse, suggested, at the very least, that Her Majesty had been concocting her little charade with unusual patience and foresight.

It didn't help matters that he knew precious little about the contents of said legend, safe for what Ella had been trying to puzzle out by interrogating him on her past. And his reputation in town didn't exactly make him the prime candidate for gossip exchange, so the fine folks of Storybrooke have been exceptionally unforthcoming. He would have to fix that.

It gave him no small amount of pleasure knowing that Ella herself was proving to be a wild card in the Queen's little game. The curse affected her differently. Perhaps because it had interfered with whatever medication she had been given, or perhaps because of some strange immunity of her own, she had managed to compartmentalize it. She also reacted differently to the objects in his store - most of these were powerfully charged with peoples' emotions and memories, and could provide the spark that would activate the curse's mechanism. He remembered "David's" miraculous recollection of his life with his alleged wife in Storybrooke upon seeing the windmill in his shop - the object, with its condensed emotional charge, was like the grain of sand that served as the irritant for the mollusk to start fabricating a pearl. Except, in their case, the curse was the mollusk, and the pearl was the set of fake memories each Storybrooke inhabitant carried with them. He should have been pleased with himself - that little detail had been genius: the curse simply exploited human nature's inability to handle contradiction. Ella, however, must have resisted it, and incurred a nosebleed. He would have to keep her away from the store, at least until he figured out whether her symptoms put her in danger.

" - Gold, are you listening?" Sheriff Swan was staring at him with unmistakable irritation. Even Ella was watching, her eyebrows drown together in a puzzled expression.

" - My apologies, Ms Swan. I was simply trying to decide on what legal basis you could possibly detain Ms French and myself for as long as you have. Sadly, I must say, I came up short, so perhaps you could enlighten me."

Sheriff Swan gave him the look of death, and Gold smiled at her. She must have not liked what she saw, because her expression darkened a notch, and he reminded himself that it was not in his best interest to antagonize "the Savior."

" – Ms Swan, I apologize if I sounded a bit short-tempered, but it has been a long day."

The sheriff gave him a suspicious look, and turned to Ella.

" – Ms French, I don't have grounds to arrest you yet, but you won't be able to go back to your apartment before I am done with the crime scene." She made a sweeping circular gesture. "As you can see, we are a little short staffed around here."

" – My understanding, Ms Swan, is that it isn't a crime scene until a crime has been established. Regardless, Ms French can come stay with me. There is certainly plenty of room." Gold hesitated, then resumed, sounding more tentative than he liked. "If Ms French is willing, that is."

Sheriff Swan gave him another disapproving stare, but had the courtesy to turn to Ella for confirmation.

" – Ms French?"

Ella shot Gold a quick grateful glance.

" – Thank you, Mr Gold. That is very kind of you." She looked at the sheriff. "At least that way you'll know where to find me, Ms Swan." If Gold didn't know any better, he might think that Ella was being sarcastic.

" – Needless to say, don't leave town, Ms French." Sheriff Swan closed the folder in front of her with more force than was strictly necessary.

"- Needless indeed" Gold grumbled under his breath, but Ella was getting up, and he noticed with concern that she was practically swaying on her feet. He was about to offer her his arm when he became aware of something in his hand. He looked at the origami in the shape of a miniature unicorn, and set it on the edge of the sheriff's table, before turning to Ella, who took his now free arm, as much out of courtesy as for support.

" – I'll be seeing more of you." Sheriff Swan's green gaze seemed to promise that she would not be visiting for tea and cookies.

" – I'll be delighted, I'm sure" Gold even managed not to put too much threat into his voice, and they headed towards the exit.

" – Oh, Ms Swan?" He paused in the doorway. "I am no specialist, nor would I dream of telling you how to do your job, but you might wish to ask around what kind of paint had been used for the mannequin. Some water-resistant paints take quite a long time to dry. Not to mention, make a mess. I'm willing to bet that Marco might have some insights on the question." He turned to leave.

" – You might wish to keep your nose out of my investigation, Mr Gold."

He smiled to himself. Under the belligerent tone there was that tiny note of acquiescence at a good idea. Perhaps Ms Swan wasn't an altogether hopeless case, after all.

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**As usual, folks, thank you for reading, and I always love to hear your feedback and comments. Reviews warm my heart, so don't hesitate to share your thoughts!**


	15. Chapter 15: A Taste of Things to Come

**A bit shorter than usual, for which I apologize. Thank you, as always, for all those who review and PM! You inspire me to write and come up with increasingly outrageous things, so please keep it coming =) **

**Pure Regina for this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter 15**

**In which Regina eats foie gras and discusses a business transaction**

**Queenside: (Def.)_ In Chess, the side of the board, where the queens are at the start of the game (the a through d files), as opposed to the kingside._**

"**Beauty in woman is that potent alchemy which transforms men into asses." - ABRAHAM MILLER, _Unmoral Maxims_**

- With all due respect, Regina, this isn't very feasible.

The mayor squished the inner urge to clobber the man sitting across from her with the two hundred dollars bottle of Dom Perignon. Instead, she picked up the convoluted bite-sized amuse-bouche from the tray of appetizers they were sharing, and popped it into her mouth. It was a paper-thin cracker covered generously with one of this world's finest inventions - the outrageously expensive fatty liver of an unfortunate goose that spent most of its short happy life being force-fed walnuts. It was delightful.

"- Nonsense, Mitchell. I know what a judicious businessman you are" she parried, the homicidal urge temporarily assuaged by the heavenly taste.

She leaned forward slightly, letting the softly draped v-neck of her black cocktail dress reveal a bit more of her milky skin. The dress was cut low enough to draw attention to the soft shadowed valley between her breasts, where a small golden medallion was glinting delicately in the warm light of the candles. She twirled the glass of red in her fingers, bringing it languidly to her lips, and took a tiny sip, without breaking eye contact with the varnished pot-bellied toadstool that passed for royalty these days. She noted how his expensive gray cashmere vest hugged his amorphous torso, the sleeves of his white dress shirt too large and bunching at the armpits, and laughed silently to herself. That, combined with the thinning hair and pale fish eyes made her aspiring Romeo as attractive as a donkey in a tutu, but, like all men mollified by the heady mix of wine and a woman's attention, he was blissfully oblivious to his own vileness. So she added a suggestive note to the curve of her full lips, her eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly, and heaved a sigh, noting with grim satisfaction the darting fish eyes take the hint and travel south. It was so easy it was bordering on boring.

" -I don't think you understand, Regi. He's the most powerful man in town."

Oh, how she resented the familiar shortening of her name. She had a brief visual of springing up on the table and stuffing the thick linen napkin he had vapidly discarded on his dirty plate down his throat. She affected boredom, a slight eye roll conveying the emotion, and trailed her hand along her neck towards the tiny gold jewel hanging precipitously just above the line of her décolleté. This apparently had the desired effect. The man made a swallowing noise, and fumbled with the wine bottle, topping off her glass. Oh, but he could hope.

" - Mitch, how is your son doing these days?"

The change of gears was apparently too quick for him, because he was clearing his throat, and rubbing his hand against the back of his neck, but to his credit, regained his composure relatively quickly.

" - Oh, he's fine, he's fine. You know, cannery job keeping him busy, and with the baby..."

" - Right, the baby!" Regina pretended she had completely forgotten about the little bundle of joy and feces, and was only now reminded of its undeniable delights.

" - Such a shame him and Ashley had to rush things so much. So young, the both of them, Ashely barely nineteen, and no education, and... Well, your son is a bright lad, of course." She let the pause draw out, pregnant with the unspoken hint that the boy would never get a degree if he had to be a father and a breadwinner. Her companion's expression grew sour, and Regina relished the Eau de Vinegar like it was the finest vintage.

" - You must be ecstatic about little Alexandra, though! She is so precious, isn't she?" she sprinkled some salt on the wound.

" - Oh, she's cute as all hell, I can't deny that."

Regina smiled seductively.

" - Mitch, dear, you are way too young to be a grandfather!" She shifted around, showing off her neck and her cleavage in one spectacular move. "I suppose it comes with its perks. You don't have to prove anything to anyone anymore."

She let the double-edged compliment hang in the air until her companion found the most efficient way to cut his pride on it.

" - Well, I suppose that this means I have my own life now, I can stop living theirs."

Well, well, the wily slime bucket still had his wits about him, she'd give him that. And to think he had been such a decent fellow on the other side. Regina relished the thought - throw together some money, power, and rational self-interest, and top it all off with a son threatening to tumble hopelessly into the déclassé category, and you could twist a man into the most despicable, self-serving, cold-blooded bastard. It warmed her heart.

" - Still, Mitchell." She looked around, making sure they wouldn't be overheard. The restaurant was too expensive for most inhabitants of Storybrooke, and it was practically deserted. They had been seated at her usual table, discreetly tucked into an alcove concealed by a wall of large potted plants. Most patrons didn't even know about its existence, or would easily overlook it, but she had made sure it was available for her whenever she needed to conduct a business transaction that called for expensive French wine and outrageous canapés. Still, she spoke in a hushed tone, taking full advantage of the way her voice acquired a dark and smoky quality at this pitch. She leaned forward towards the toadstool, whose eyes had troubles staying on hers, seemingly distracted by what was going on below.

" - If only Gold hadn't left you high and dry with Ashley's adoption deal. I realize, of course, that the money was only part of it - but wouldn't it have been so much better if they'd had more time to plan these things. Don't get me wrong, they are lovely, and so is the baby, but a shotgun wedding is still a shotgun wedding."

He looked at her with his cold colorless eyes, and Regina realized she had to redirect the anger at the desired target, before it backfired at her.

" - Don't look at me like that, Mitch - I'm not blaming the kids. They're young, and the mistakes of youth are forgivable. If anyone is to blame, it's that scheming loan shark. As far as I know, everyone was content until he decided that having Sheriff Swan owing him a favor was more important than your son's success. Or upholding a bargain, for that matter."

" - Look, Regi, I can't agree with you more, what he did wasn't decent, and it wasn't good business. But what you're asking me to do..."

Tedious macaque, he would drive her murderous if he didn't get on with the program. She had already been absent way too often in the evenings, held up "at work", and Henry had been spending more and more time with his insufferable blond thug of a mother. If she also had to bend over backwards to get this fool to see what was in his best interests, she was unsure she could refrain from running him over with her car. Come to think of it, the cleanup costs wouldn't be worth the trouble. She'd have someone else do it. Preferably someone she needed to dispose of.

She cut to the chase.

" - Do you have any guarantees that he won't change his mind, and come around, clamoring for your little granddaughter? From what I understand, you drew up a contract. Signed. All he gave Ashley was a verbal agreement that he wasn't going to take the baby anymore. That won't hold up in court if it came to that..."

" - What kind of sick bastard..."

" - My point exactly, my dear Mitchell."

The toadstool ruminated, so she decided to tip the scales.

" - Mitchell, dear, what would sway your opinion? Surely, we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. All I am asking you to do is what you already do so well, which is to say, transfer some numbers from one column to the other."

" - You are asking me to commit fraud, Reg."

" - Look, the money is paid, all I need you to do is to make sure that it looks like it's coming from a different account. This shouldn't burden you much. You are running banking for this town, and I know you can do this. After all, my dear Mitchell, don't forget who put you there."

The man looked at her speculatively.

" - Let me get this straight. You want me to make your mental health ward expenses for Moe French's girl look like they're coming out of Gold's pocket. That's a pretty outrageous machination."

" - Just make it look plausible, enough so that if there were a leak to the press, it would create enough of an impression. Trust me, the reporters and gossipmongers will do the rest. Your name won't even come into it."

" - I still don't understand. What can you possibly gain from it?"

Regina smiled. She had won this one.

" - That is for me to know, and for you to wonder, Mitch. But for your own purposes, if you want to be safe from this man, you should have something to leverage with. A bargaining chip. And for heaven's sake, be _discreet._ No one must know until all the pieces are aligned."

She watched the cogs turn in his head. They looked a little rusty, and she half-expected to hear a creaking noise. Instead, all she heard was the quiet bubbling of water in the large aquarium that formed one of the walls of their alcove, and served the double purpose of decoration and sound buffer against curious ears.

" - And what if he comes after me?"

" - I am asking you to make sure that you and your family are protected. Nothing more. Surely, you can see the wisdom in that. If he comes after you, simply suggest that there is more that you haven't revealed yet. And believe me, by that point, there will be."

" – You're playing a risky game, Reg. You know he's powerful, and he's got his feelers everywhere in the town."

Regina allowed herself a smug smile.

" – Trust me, Mitch, he's a little bit… distracted at the moment. So, if you are concerned about timing, this is one narrow window of opportunity."

The man gave a martyred sigh.

"- I will see what I can do, Reg, but I make no promises."

" - That is all I am asking, that you try."

The toadstool stretched leisurely, and gave her a knowing smile.

" - In my opinion, Reg, you should go back to trying to frame him for the murder of that Gus kid. Nasty business, that story. I have been hearing some interesting things since this Ella French's girl has been let out. Sounds like the two of them are getting awfully friendly these days, although from what I hear they were awfully friendly back then too. He probably did off that kid, as competition. Or maybe something even more sinister."

He took a sip of his wine, and a look of dawning epiphany suddenly spread on his features. It was an ugly sight.

"- Wait a second... You want the girl to believe that Gold had kept her incarcerated!"

She waved her hand dismissively.

" - That's just part of it. Mitchell, trust me, I have people working on the murder bit already. But, unfortunately, right now there is nothing illegal about what they're doing. Safe for the fact that he's much older, and that she is a former mental patient, there is nothing even particularly scandalous to it. I can feed the sense of public outrage only so much before people get used to it, and simply go back to their business. And I can't have that yet, so we need something substantial."

" - True enough. Most men around here might even admire him for it. She might be a head case, but she's a very pretty head case."

Regina smiled thinly.

" - I suppose if you like that sort of heroin chic."

The slimy macaque looked smug.

" - Ah, Reg, you know you're still the fairest of them all." He narrowed his pale eyes at her. "You aren't jealous, are you? Is this what this is about? A jaded lover? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?"

Regina looked at the toadstool in shock and then decided that nothing short of drawing and quartering would do.

" - Are you implying what I think you are implying, Mitch?"

He threw up his hands in surrender.

" - Just wondering why you are suddenly out for Gold's blood. Most of the time, if a woman is this hell bent on revenge, you have to assume something more personal is at stake. "

" - Well, you should know by now that I am not most women."

The waiter came by with the bill, and was about to hand it, predictably, to the toadstool, but Regina intercepted him.

" - My treat." She slid her credit card into the little pocket. "So, do we have an agreement?"

Mitchell Herman appeared to consider, then nodded, finally.

" - I suppose it doesn't even have to be true, and I can change the numbers back if need be. If it comes out in the wash, there is always plausible deniability. An employee made a mistake, wanted to blackmail Gold, or be the center of attention. Someone can always take the fall."

" - Ah, Mitchell, what would I do without you?"

The toadstool looked even more pleased with himself, then seemed to remember something.

" - So, how are you holding up with that awful mannequin business? A pretty sick, and not very veiled death threat against the mayor is a rather major scandal. You think that girl did it? Didn't she do something similar before you tucked her away?"

" - Oh, I am sure Sheriff Swan is working hard on it." She adopted a disturbed expression, and it wasn't even that difficult. The doll had been produced by someone who did, after all, genuinely hate her - it had to be to look the part - but he had truly outdone himself. It had left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and even came to haunt her dreams. But the trick to ruling was to keep her enemies close and personal, so that their hatred could be channeled in the appropriate direction, and that she had always excelled at.

"- Well, I hope she gets the sick bastard who did it." He gave her a slightly watery smile, the Dom Perignon finally catching up to him, and the man was morphing from callous self-serving jerk to sentimental slop faster than she could say abracadabra. It was truly magical.

" - Thank you, Mitch. I hope so as well." She made herself look anxious. "This is in part why I need you to help me with Gold. I am, frankly, concerned for my safety. Of course, so far the evidence is inconclusive, but if she did, in fact do it, and she has a powerful ally in Gold…" She gave him a calculatedly helpless shrug. The toadstool was nodding sagely.

" – Well, Reg, I'm always happy to help an old friend."

She smiled at him warmly. He reached out, taking one of her perfectly manicured hands between his own clammy ones, and ran his thumb over her knuckles in little circles. Regina had never been so grateful to see the waiter come back with her copy of the receipt. She extracted her hands, and signed the slip of paper with a flourish.

" - So, about that arrangement." His lips twisted in a suggestive leer.

She gave him her most luscious smile, repressing the urge to wipe the unpleasant expression off his face by stabbing his hand with a fork. Or some other part.

" - Let's talk about it on the way, but needless to say, there will be no reward until the job is done to _my_ satisfaction."

" - And how do you plan to define what counts as your _satisfaction_?"

While she would have thoroughly enjoyed puncturing his foot with one of her spiky stiletto heels, the man was not worth the shoe. So she straightened, showing off her figure to its full advantage, and reached for her purse.

" - That is exactly what we shall discuss."

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**Voila. The next chapter will return to Ella and Gold.**


	16. Chapter 16: Missed Connections

**Folks, as always, thank you for reviewing and adding the story! You make my day.**

**This is long, and mostly fluff, but hope you enjoy! **

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**Chapter 16**

**In which Gold and Ella are forced to reconsider the merits of modern technology**

"_**All will come out in the washing" – Miguel de Cervantes**_

"_**Most gods throw dice, but Fate plays chess, and you don't find out til too late that he's been playing with two queens all along." – Terry Pratchett**_

Ella smiled at the stocky man tying his apron, and gathered her purse. The other cook gave her a stiff nod and turned away promptly, busying himself with the stove. He never was particularly friendly, so she didn't feel any sense of alarm until she walked out of the kitchen. Ruby, as usual, gave her a brilliant grin and a half hug on her way out, but the rest of the customers shot her odd looks, some stealing furtive glances and whispering to each other, others pretending that they were suddenly enthralled with their food, like it held the key to that fundamental secret the universe was intent on hiding from them. An ugly old crone stared at her from a corner booth, her wrinkled features drawn in an expression of abstract hostility, one milky eye clouded over with cataract looking somewhere past her, while the other moved up and down her dress, fixating on her hair in a way that made Ella want to escape the diner as fast as she could.

She was glad, however, to see Leroy come in through the door, as she was about to walk out.

" - A word, sister" the gruff man grumped suddenly, and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. She nodded, puzzled, and they stepped out into the street. The orange glow from the setting sun felt warm on her face, and some of the icy prickles that people's gazes had left on her skin melted away.

" - Leroy, I haven't seen you in ages!" She moved to hug him, and he gave her an awkward one-armed squeeze, then stepped away promptly.

" - Listen up, you gotta hear this." He hesitated, reaching for the right words and obviously coming up short, like someone with only high cost consonants in a game of scrabble. "People are talking" he finally exhaled, resigned at his own lack of loquaciousness.

" - Talking about what, Leroy?" she asked, dread settling in her stomach. She reached for her better half for support. It seemed to have an ample reservoir of bad-temperedness that she found herself relying on more and more often, drawing it around herself like a shield.

" - You and Gold." Leroy's dark eyebrows were drawn together in an expression of deep concentration. "Look, sister, it isn't my business, but I'm smelling trouble on the horizon. This ain't gonna end well."

" - What do you mean?" The town's rumor mill must be relying on space technology to spread gossip at such a rate. Maybe the inhabitants of Storybrooke had little radio transmitters implanted into their brains and were all avidly following the "Crazy Ella Show". She smiled to herself, but Leroy's dour expression had a sobering effect, the feeling of dread traveling to her toes and making them tingle.

" - Look, I know you had nothing to do with that Regina doll. But I'm telling you, someone's doing their damnest to pin it on you." He looked at her carefully. "I heard Sheriff Swan sealed the scene. You got a place to stay?"

She averted her gaze, and hated herself for it.

" - Yes, Leroy. I'm fine. Don't worry."

The man rocked back and forth on his heels, clearly uncomfortable, and unsure of how to proceed.

" - Sister, listen, I might be the town pariah, but so are you, no offense. So from one pariah to another - trust no one." His green eyes bored into hers, intense with worry, the deep sun wrinkles crinkling his skin, suddenly making him look like he was carrying the world's sorrows on his shoulders, and was more than eager to pass the burden along. "You hear me?" He looked at his feet, digging his hands deep into the pockets of a thick hoodie. He seemed to have lost the fisherman's coat on account of the warm weather. "I'd hate to see you hurt, sister."

Ella felt her heart sink, and found herself throwing her arms around the grump, and giving him a tight squeeze. He stiffened, but eventually relaxed, and gave her a few pats on the back before she released him.

" - All I'm saying is that if it gets bad, you always got a place to crash." He turned to the door, apparently deciding that awkward moments were one of those things that you should simply walk away from.

" - Thanks, Leroy" she told his back, her smile feeling a bit brittle, and fraying at the edges.

" - Welcome" she heard him grumble.

Ella walked down the street, smiling up into the dying warmth of the setting sun, long violet shadows stretching across her path from buildings and trees, but then suddenly stopped in her tracks. She was walking towards her apartment, on autopilot. Sadly, it was now equipped with a metaphorical, but nonetheless conspicuous "Wrong Way" sign, which her morning conversation with Sheriff Swan had confirmed. The telephone call had gone approximately as follows: No, she couldn't go back... No, she couldn't get any of her clothes, as it would be tampering with the evidence... And no, Sheriff Swan didn't know how long it would take her to process the scene. The sheriff had sounded simultaneously apologetic and angry, and Ella felt absurdly guilty for torturing the poor woman, who was simply trying to do her job. She had a sense that Sheriff Swan came equipped with her own set of problems, so she decided not to push.

This left her little choice, so she turned around and headed towards Gold's house. It had been two days. The first night she had followed him through the stained-glass front door, both of them oddly skittish, like two cats in unfamiliar surroundings. He offered her tea, and she accepted, settling on the living room sofa to wait, afraid that following him deeper into the house would be a kind of invasion. The living room was dim and filled with elegant old furniture. It was also cluttered with a variety of odd objects, scattered on the surfaces of things seemingly at random. While she was alone, she decided she would just rest her head for a minute or two on one of the temptingly soft velvety pillows. The next thing she knew, she was waking up, bleary eyed and profoundly confused, with the feeling that there was something terribly amiss. She was still on the couch, bundled in a warm fluffy blanket, and it was light outside. The feeling of the sun on her skin as she was waking up felt so alien that for a minute or two she neither knew where, nor who she was. She had not had a proper night of sleep for as long as she could remember, and she stretched with pleasure, feeling rested for the first time in eons. Then it came back to her, and she shot up from the couch like a rocket, frantically trying to smooth what was undoubtedly the world's most severe case of bed hair. The house was quiet, and she wondered around the first floor, eventually making her way into the kitchen. It was funny, she noted, how people seemed to live in houses that were too big for them, and carved little pathways in the formal, impersonal spaces, trajectories of habitation like foot trails in the forest. The kitchen, for example, was a place where the presence of the owner could be felt, even if it stood empty at the moment.

There was a note on the counter. It displayed a neatly drawn diagram, with arrows pointing in various directions. "Tea" was apparently to her right, and she found the electric kettle, brewing pot, and an old-fashioned tin box. She opened it, and inhaled, smiling in delight at the fragrant leaves. There were two more arrows, captioned with "toast" and "jam". How he had known that she had a soft spot for raspberry jam on her toast was a complete mystery. Maybe the man was a mind-reader.

Underneath the diagram there was a note, in neat, elegant handwriting: "_Guest bedroom upstairs, second left, bathroom across. Make yourself at home. -G_"

She hadn't really had a chance to do that. The other cook had called in sick, so she'd had to work a double shift that day. It was more than twelve hours on her feet, but she needed the cash, especially since she no longer had access to her wardrobe, meager as it was, and her two-day old clothing was getting distinctly worse for wear. She came to the house at around ten, but the owner was, once again, nowhere in sight, and she wondered if he was avoiding her. She sneaked upstairs, quietly, took a shower in the immaculate guest bathroom that didn't look like it had ever been used, and made her way into her assigned bedroom. She couldn't find the light switch, so she closed the door behind her, undressed, and tumbled onto the big looming shape that was undoubtedly the bed. She was asleep in an instant.

The next morning she was due at the diner at 6am. She had been so used to waking shortly after four, before dawn, that when she opened her eyes and realized it was close to five, she scrambled to get ready, still unsure what to make of her sudden narcolepsy. Even her better half was behaving strangely – it seemed content and in a good mood, lounging right on the other side of its fence and sometimes scratching softly at the enclosure, as if it wanted her to come out and play. She dressed quickly, and made her way downstairs. Again, Gold was MIA, most likely sleeping somewhere on the labyrinthine second floor, so she made a pot of tea, leaving some for him, and, on the spur of the moment, decided to raid the fridge. It had some breakfast basics, and she fixed an omelet and French toast. She heard movement upstairs, but she was already close to running late, so she found a notepad on the counter, tore off a sheet and wrote in large letters "Breakfast" with an arrow pointing to the stove. She covered the frying pan with a lid, and ran out the door, smiling to herself. The walk to the diner was quite a bit longer than from her old apartment, but she hardly noticed.

Ella shook off the memories, and turned resolutely on her heels. She looked through her wallet, finding it thick with a whopping $78 to her name, but that would at least get her underwear and maybe a new outfit, if she was cheap, and would leave some money on the side until the next paycheck. Was she still supposed to pay Gold for rent on her apartment? Or should she also pay him for staying in his house? She shook her head in confusion, and decided that she would leave the question well enough alone for now. She could always pick it up later – it would undoubtedly be exactly where she left it.

One lovely (and surprisingly affordable) thrift store acquisition later – a midnight blue sundress with tiny light-blue flowers complimented beautifully by a creamy white button-up sweater - plus underwear and other basic essentials, she was down to $38 dollars, but at least she had money coming in soon. She hurried towards the house, walking along the country road in her sandals, relishing the feel of humid grass on her toes and the heady smell of greenery warmed by the sun. The adobe-colored mansion loomed behind the trees, its hue turning coral with the waning light, the foliage surrounding it almost purple in the oblique rays. He had left her a set of keys that first morning, and she rummaged through her purse, wondering in passing whether if she were to try and climb into the handbag, she'd end up in a different dimension.

She unlocked the door, and walked into the foyer, but felt immediate and acute disappointment. The house was too quiet. Gold was away again, and now Ella felt fairly certain that he was, in fact, avoiding her. She refused to let the thought chase its tail around her head and firmly brought it to heel, throwing off her sandals, and making her way into the kitchen barefoot, sandals in tow. She stopped in the doorway. There was another note on the counter. She approached it gingerly, her heart suddenly doing little bunny hops around her chest cavity. The diagram was simple. "Ice-cream" it said, an arrow pointing in the general direction of the fridge. She smiled and walked over, opened the freezer door, and peered inside. A round carton of Rocky Road sat in the center of an otherwise perfectly empty freezer. She chuckled, shaking her head, and closed the door. Maybe she'd have some later. While the owner was missing she might as well use the time wisely, and wash her clothes. Between the thrift store outfit that smelled of mothballs, and her current garb that smelled worse, she would be a biohazard soon if she didn't do something about it.

Suddenly in a good mood, she ran up the steps, dropped her purchases on her bed, and made a beeline for the bathroom. She closed the door, turned on the shower, and while the water was warming up, decided to check what was in the linen closet. Maybe there was a bathrobe to find. It looked like Gold had hired an interior decorator, and assigned him with the task of supplying the house with "things that people were meant to have in their houses." It was all remarkably tasteful, but also remarkably impersonal.

The linen closet revealed an abundance of towels, in various sizes and shapes, and one silky piece of clothing, a starkly white, wide-sleeved thing with a wide blood-red sash and a delicate floral design of autumn leaves. She wasn't sure what it was, but it would do in a pinch. She had spied a washer and drier in a small area in the back of the kitchen – too large to be a closet, too small to be a room - and she was on a mission to have clean clothes, at least for the next two days.

The hot water was pure bliss. She took longer than usual, but then decided that she had to be mindful of the time if she wanted to be done with all her tasks by the point the owner returned. After all, he couldn't permanently avoid his own house. She toweled off her hair, letting the thick curls coil naturally around her face, and picked up the silky robe, eyebrows drawn in concentration. There was still a store tag attached, and she hesitated, finally settling on removing it carefully without breaking the plastic string. The easiest way to hold up the garment was to wrap the sash several times around her waist, right under her breasts. The hem came right above her knees, but it was comfortable, in a slinky sort of way. There was no mirror to offer her constructive criticism, but she wasn't planning on being seen. After all, Gold hadn't been around for the last few days, so she felt fairly secure that she had time to do laundry, if she put it on an express cycle. She sauntered out of the bathroom, gathered her dirty clothes, balled them in one wad of foulness, and clambered down the steps to the laundry room. There was a jug of detergent on the washing machine, and she stuffed everything in and launched it on delicate. The beastly chrome apparatus grumbled to life, drawing hot water in a hiss. It promised to take 30 minutes. She could make tea while she waited.

Ella stepped out of the small room-closet hybrid, turned, and found herself blushing to the roots of her hair. Gold was standing in the kitchen, tea kettle in one hand, his suit jacket casually hanging on the back of a chair, and his tie nowhere to be seen. His dark shirt was unbuttoned at the top. They stared at each other in the suddenly thick silence, Ella painfully aware that the silky bathrobe probably left precious little to the imagination, but her mind insisted on returning to the unheard of occurrence - Gold _sans_ suit. She gathered the meager remains of her wits, and marshaled them in the direction of constructing a grammatically correct and intelligent sentence.

" – I was doing laundry." Well, she had managed the first part.

Gold looked like he was physically shaking off stupor.

" – I sincerely hope that you plan to do so frequently."

She blinked at him in confusion. He shrugged, smiling, and set the kettle on its stand.

" – You make the _yukata_ look…" he seemed to search for the appropriate adjective. "Exquisite." He finished, not meeting her gaze, but his lips were quirking at the corners, as if he was trying, not very successfully, to suppress a grin.

She wrinkled her nose, the blush still burning her cheeks.

" – Really? In that case, it got the better end of the bargain, because I think it's making _me_ look not very presentable."

Gold chuckled. She realized a little too late that her quip could be interpreted as an open invitation to ogle, and, sure enough, he was giving her a speculative once-over. Ella felt like she would give her left arm, and maybe a couple of toes for a cloak of invisibility. Although she wasn't being completely honest with herself. There was something about the way the man's eyes twinkled that was profoundly satisfying. Her better half, which apparently had none of her qualms, egged her on to stop huddling into the flimsy garment and wear it like she meant it. At some point soon, she'd have to have a serious chat with the thing behind the fence about who was running the show.

" – Oh, I don't know about unpresentable" he trailed, turning to the rumbling tea kettle. Her mind promptly found the nearest gutter, and went for a swim. She was blushing again before he had even finished his sentence. "You know the funny thing about presents…"

Oh, sure, what big teeth you have, the better to eat you with... She could see it coming a mile away, and she wasn't about to bite.

" – What is it?" She was hopeless.

He turned to her, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, so the smile, having nowhere else to go, settled in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow, apparently expecting her to guess. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a narrow-eyed look. She tried to discipline her brain into finding something innocuous. What did they say about presents?

" – You don't look a gift horse in the mouth?" That must have been it. She had borrowed the robe and was being shamefully ungrateful. A new kind of embarrassment settled in her chest, and she was reconsidering that invisibility cloak. Surely, she could spare a kidney.

" – Oh I was merely going to suggest that the wrapping wasn't what was important."

Ella gaped at him.

" – Are you kidding? Have you ever seen a gift wrapped with bits sticking out?" After the words flew out, she almost slammed a hand against her mouth. Apparently it had seceded from the rest of her body and was running a pirate operation aimed at sabotaging any attempt she might have at decorum.

Gold appeared to reflect on the critical problem of wrapping practices.

" – I don't believe I have, but surely the notion is severely underrated."

Ella considered the clothing merits of oversized cardboard boxes. Maybe she could cut out a little flap for her eyes and scurry around, safely concealed in the giant brown cube. Doorways might be a bit difficult to navigate, and rain would pose some problems, but the idea had potential.

Meanwhile, Gold poured hot water into the brewing pot, left it to infuse, and procured two mugs from the cupboard. He made his way to the freezer, took the ice-cream container, and fished out a spoon from the silverware drawer. Ella watched him, transfixed by the strangely mundane actions.

He opened the box and dug in, plopping the contents of the spoon into his mouth, and raising his eyes at her, a mischievous glint dancing in the tea-colored irises.

" –Hmm?" He waved the container from side to side, and she snickered at the strange sight of him, relaxed against the counter with the ridiculously cheerful box of ice cream in one hand, and a spoon in the other. She approached, about to reach for a spoon of her own, but he had strategically positioned himself so that his behind barred access to the silverware drawer. Either she had to reach around him, and possibly push him out of the way, or contend with his spoon. Well, they technically had kissed. It wouldn't be that odd to share a spoon. So she cocked an eyebrow at him, letting him make the next move. He examined the contents of the carton, and scooped a healthy dose of the frozen stuff. She noticed that he hunted around for the embedded marshmallows and nuts before coming up with a large dollop of frozen cream. He turned the business end of the spoon in her direction, raising his eyebrows once in encouragement. She gave him what she hoped was a pointed look, and plucked the spoon out of his hand. She noticed a flicker of disappointment, so she took perhaps a little longer than strictly necessary to transfer the contents of the spoon into her mouth. Gold's eyes traveled to her lips, and she suddenly felt very warm, ice-cream be damned.

" – It's pretty good" she managed after her tongue had thawed a little.

" – I'm personally more partial to _dulce de leche_, but couldn't find any."

She leaned against the counter next to him, and they passed the container back and forth in comfortable silence. Finally, she shook her head when he offered it once again. He looked at her quizzically and smiled, the expression tinged with a hint of something she had never expected to see on his sharp features. Underneath the teasing smirk there was something very close to tenderness.

" – You have something…" Before Ella could figure out where the offending chocolate smear was likely located, he rubbed his thumb slowly over her bottom lip. Her lips parted involuntarily. Sure enough, his thumb came away with half-melted chocolate, but instead of washing his hands, he brought it to his own lips, and disposed of the chocolate that way. Ella met his gaze, realizing dimly that her expression must have acquired the slightly stupefied look of a small rodent hypnotized by a cobra.

He turned to face her and stepped closer, but hesitated before breaching the small distance separating them. Her eyes were drawn to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and she found herself wondering, entirely inappropriately, whether he'd mind terribly if she unfastened a few more buttons, purely out of scientific curiosity, of course. He didn't appear to be wearing an undershirt, and she simply wanted to know whether her assessment was accurate. She blushed, her lips quirking in a small smile despite herself. She heard him chuckle. His arms encircled her waist, and drew her closer. Silk apparently had superconductive properties, because she was acutely aware of the heat of his skin, the smell of spice and burning juniper washing over her and scrambling her thoughts. _Why burning juniper? -_ she thought to herself dimly, her eyes meeting his, and she was getting lost in them again, as was becoming her custom. Again, she noted the hesitation, a fraction of an inch away from her lips, as if each time they kissed he expected the universe to unleash some kind of cataclysmic event in response. Then again, perhaps he was right - they didn't have the best track record. Well, she decided, she'd brave it, and if the universe wanted to contribute, it could bring its best. She leaned into him, throwing her arms around his neck, buried her hands in his hair, and drew him in, feeling a profound sense of satisfaction at the way his body molded against hers. Then things became blurry, the world fell away, and all she was aware of was his lips, and his hands, which, much to her surprise, set off on an exploratory expedition towards the uneven terrain where her back lost its dignified title, and progressively turned into her legs. She gasped at the little squeeze, her eyes wide. He chuckled softly, burying his face in her hair, and Ella practically squealed when she felt his teeth graze her ear. Apparently, her internal thermostat was undergoing profound deregulation, because her skin was turning simultaneously scalding hot and ice-cold. His hands, meanwhile, were traveling north towards other uncharted territories, and she fumbled with the top button of his shirt, face drawn in concentration. She decided that she was at a significant disadvantage when it came to the amount of unwrapping they each had to do, so she might as well get a head start. Some part of her mind was protesting weakly that this was entirely inappropriate, but apparently the thing behind the fence was now largely in the driver seat, and it found nothing wrong with the idea that, when it came to clothing, less was more. She heard him draw in a sharp breath when her fingers finally conquered the recalcitrant button, and she slid her hands under the shirt.

" - This might call for reciprocation" he whispered into her ear, and she felt her bones turn to jelly, as one side of her "bathrobe" was being very slowly, but irrevocably coaxed down her shoulder. The part of her mind in charge of decorum reared its head with another half-hearted protest, but was squished by the overwhelming majority, which clearly was unimpressed with the argumentation. She felt fingers trail gently down her neck, along the curve of her shoulder, and she held her breath, waiting for the law of gravity to do what it did best, and cause things to fall down.

A loud beeping noise cut through their trance, stopping the little dance dead in its tracks. They both froze and looked at each other, startled out of the magical bubble. Gold's expression displayed somewhat pained surprise. Ella didn't dare to think what she looked like, but if her companion's features in any way mirrored her own, her countenance was the human equivalent of what a cat would look like after having its saucer of cream snatched from under its nose. The universe didn't deign to provide a cataclysm. A washing machine would do.

Gold exhaled sharply through his teeth, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his arms to his sides. Ella tightened her robe, her cheeks so hot she could probably serve as a small space heater, and maybe glow in the dark to boot.

He cleared his throat.

" - Would you like some tea, my dear?" The intonation was simultaneously bashful and teasing, and it melted the sudden sense of awkward unease that had settled between them. She smiled.

" - I would love some tea." They stood there, watching each other for a few seconds, and then she was giggling, and even Gold was chuckling and shaking his head. She made for the laundry room to throw her clothes in the dryer.

" - I might have to reconsider the merits of dry-cleaning" Gold grumbled, loud enough for her to hear in the other room, and Ella snorted and shook her head, then kneeled in front of the dryer, threw her clothes into the opening, closed the door, and rested her burning forehead against the cool metal of the machine, closing her eyes.

She hadn't realized how _tricky_ their new living arrangements were likely to be.

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**Voila. In the next chapter, you will get to see someone you haven't so far seen in this story.**


	17. Chapter 17: If the Hat Fits

**Thank you all for the reviews and endorsements! You folks are fabulous, and I'm glad you enjoyed the fluff. Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from :-D Now, this chapter was a bit out of my comfort zone. For those of you who have a Mad Swan shipping commitment, I promise to tread lightly. ;-) Feedback always very welcome!**

**I hope you enjoy.**

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**Chapter 17**

**In which we are introduced to the Mad Hatter**

" '_**There must be some way out of here,' said the joker to the thief…" ~ **__**All Along the Watchtower, Bob Dylan**_

"_**God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e., everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who **_**smiles all the time**_**."**_ **~_Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman_, _Good Omens_, 1991**

The man twirled the card in his long, delicate fingers, making it dance from knuckle to knuckle - forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie, and back again, the laminated paper snapping against his digits. He aimed, card held vertically, and tossed the Jack of Diamonds through the air. It twirled and disappeared inside the top hat, joining its other brethren. He pulled another card from the deck, and turned it face up. The Bitch of Spades smirked at him smugly, her regal profile offset by the cruel twist of her full red lips. Queens, the man reflected, were particularly proficient at one thing, and one thing only - making their underlings lose their heads.

He'd lost his head once, so long ago it felt like another lifetime. He found it eventually, a little worse for wear, and it never fit quite right after that, like a set of hand-me-downs distorted to accommodate another shape. So here he was, headless and heedless, stuck in a world where time moved in spurts, and where there were no happy endings, no matter how many times one shuffled the deck. And still, he was in thrall, a vassal, or was it a vessel, an unmanned ship with no-one at the helm, at the mercy of winds, a Flying Dutchman.

He got up from his chair and stretched, chasing the stiffness out of his bones, another sleepless night coating the interior of his eyelids with sandpaper. The Sandman was a cruel visitor. He bent over the spyglass, more out of habit than because he expected to see anything, but the blinds on his daughter's house were shut.

He straightened again, and turned to his desk, where the Raven sat in gloomy contemplation, a scarecrow, warding off solitude before it could descend on him and pluck out his eyes. Sometimes, he talked to the Raven, the sound of his voice chasing its own echoes down the tastefully adorned corridors of his modernist jail.

The bird never answered.

Of all the miserable things that filled this world, he found some solace in words, assembled into fragile card castles, held together and spun with puns, like pins. He remembered one about a Raven, a midnight visitor tormenting another lost soul, imprisoned with memories he tried to bury at his writing desk. He, too, had known the difference between incommensurable things.

Sometimes, his mind played tricks on him. It was full of holes, and he kept falling into them, down and down the interminable well shafts, walls lined with portraits of people he should remember, and paintings of places he should wish to revisit. But he neither remembered, nor wished, because he was beyond desires for either the past or the future.

In his worst moments, he doubted. What if the girl was, in fact, no daughter of his? What if she was a stranger's child, and what kind of man spied on strange little girls from his large mansion full of discarded hats and sharp pointy objects? What kind of man sat on a bench outside of a middle school, pretending to read a paper, but watching the kids over the pages? The thoughts were like nails scraping on glass, they made him dizzy, made him want to scream, and hurl things at the walls of his opulent prison. They made him want to cut holes out of the reality, until he could step through one. But his scissors were too dull to sever the thick fabric, barely sharp enough to lacerate skin, and probably not his own, as it was becoming thicker with each passing day, until he doubted he felt anything at all.

At those moments, he wondered if he had really lost his head to the Bitch of Spades. Perhaps she carried it around town, on a spike, like some gruesome banner. Perhaps she used his skull as a chalice for her expensive drinking habit, or better yet, a candle holder, to illuminate her bedroom at night, as she plotted her next moves, or entertained her episodic lovers. Perhaps he could procure a horse, and ride through town on the Eve of All Saints, a Headless Horseman, collecting gruesome trophies, and stringing them together like a rosary of skulls. After all, he was hatless, not hateless.

Slowly, over the years that weren't years at all, he had learned to make his thoughts dance to a different melody, to the flute of his own private Pied Piper. It lured him away from the plague-stricken town where his mind contorted to the obscene drumming of the _Danse Macabre_. The new tune no longer whispered of desperation, but promised revenge at the end of a needle. He embroidered his fantasies with it, as elaborate as the brocade on the lapels of his coat.

He gathered his bag, and threw on his long overcoat. The Bitch of Spades had a trump card up her sleeve, the one thing that could always make him fold, no matter what his hand was, and he could only bluff but so far. She dangled her bait, tucked discreetly in a yellow envelope, her deceptively beautiful handwriting spelling out the address of his daughter's parents. She, too, was deceptively beautiful, but he saw through the façade to the rotten apple core. There was a worm eating her heart, an envious little creature that ran her, as surely as she ran the town. But then again, they were all worm food, so who was he to judge? But judge he did, as he looked at the contents of the envelope that the Bitch of Spades unfolded before him. Some of the images were of him, looking through the spy glass. Some of the other thick laminated black and white shots were enough to make a saner man loose his mind. Fortunately for him, he was quite mad.

The Queen spied on her spies, and kept them in check. Or was it check-mate? He could never remember the game he played, but he had always been better with cards, although that changed nothing, he was just another Suicide King amputating his own head with his sword. Off with the damn thing. After all, as the Bitch of Spades knew only too well, her spies watched themselves, and it would be much more practical to do so if one's head wasn't in the way. So he told her he would do her bidding, provided it had an expiration date that did not coincide with his own life span. He had one thing to bargain with - the Hat. As long as she had hope that he could make it spin, she would not discard him, and they would go back to their little waltz, a blade at each other's jugular; they were both playing for keeps, after all.

It was amusing, in a way, that the town was full of spinners - strange hybrids of spinsters and sinners - and he was all three, but not a particularly accomplished one. Unlike the Joker, who spun gold into puppet strings, or the Bitch of Spades, who spun deceit into tears and heartache, he was once able to spin hats into holes. Except, his power was gone, and the only thing he could spin were words, puny puns pinning his head in place until it was nothing more than a pin cushion.

She had a simple task for him, and one he was good at. He followed the young woman around town, staying out of sight, writing out notes for the Bitch of Spades to pick up at the end of the day. He was an idle man, wealthy beyond his ability to spend, and intensely miserable in his idleness, because all those things that made his life meaningful had been amputated and transplanted elsewhere. So he almost welcomed the assignment, an uninvited guest that broke the monotony of his days.

According to the town folk, the young woman was mad. He watched her with a certain degree of anticipation, perhaps hoping that she, too, was missing her head. Instead, she carried hers with dignity, despite the adversity and the town gossips oozing poison like so many _amanita muscaria_. His curiosity was piqued. She was playing the abysmal hand she'd been dealt with courage, almost with abandon, like a tightrope dancer. She treaded air and refused to look down, so she didn't see the traps at her feet. It was inspiring in a world without inspiration or magic, and his breath caught sometimes watching the acrobatics. She walked over the abyss, sowing kindness like fairy dust.

He began to admire her, like a poet admires his muse, at a distance, unseen and unknown. How she had marched into the Joker's lair, when she could no longer share the boatman's house! He had wondered, then, whether she was very brave, or very stupid, or both. But he watched them walk together, watched the Joker try to hang on to his heart. If he had been smart, he would have given it to her for safekeeping, but he wasn't smart, merely clever. Love demanded bloody sacrifices at its altar, not business transactions, but the Joker knew little about love, outside of truck and barter. Hearts were a scarce commodity, in this world or all the other ones, and he knew only their value, not their worth.

Slowly, before he could realize what was happening, he began to look forward to the moments he saw her, and his notes devolved into doodles, the doodles morphed into sketches, records of the small details that changed from day to day - the way her hair curled against the nape of her neck, when she tied it up, the way her hands held the hem of her dress, as if she had been used to wearing much longer gowns... He burned the sketches as soon as he got back to his cage, but each day brought more drawings, and he drew and drew from the well of his memory, but the cursed fountain never dried up. So he watched her tilt her head up into the sun, smiling, or trail her fingers along the delicate greenery of new leaves as she walked to the diner, and he was drawn, only to be drowned in his own one-sided gaze. In the game he played with himself, it was a draw: she distracted him from his other voyeuristic activities.

She was hypnotic.

He spent much time wondering why he could not avert his gaze away from her, even when it became clear that the Queen did not expect total scrutiny. There was that crystalline purity to the girl that no one could mar, not the Joker with his expensive suits and rotten deals, not the Bitch of Spades with her venom and lies, not even the drab reality of this ghost town that covered everything in a layer of bitter ash. She reminded him of someone else, from so long ago he had almost forgotten. Sometimes, the memories crawled out of their rabbit hole, and made his teeth ache and stomach knot, his hands curling around the air, as if his lost wife stood before him, invisible, her laughter like the tinkling of bells. Perhaps she had eaten the caterpillar's mushroom again, and was infinitely small, permeating the minuscule spaces between drops of vapor, between molecules and atoms. Sometimes, he indulged in the fantasy that she was everywhere, in the clouds that passed above him, in the sun reflected off a rain puddle, in the wind that stroked his face. But the one he spied on was real, and she made his memories twist around his throat like snakes, or a noose, as sure as the one that suspended the mangled doll from its tree. Another girl-child who answered the queen with riddles, and drank tea from the monster's cup.

When the Bitch of Spades had told him to paint the doll, he hadn't known its purpose. He should have guessed. He had stayed in the shadows, as he always did, and meanwhile the fingers pointed at the likely suspect, because people were too lazy to look beyond the obvious. He was afraid that, eventually, she too would tarnish under the townfolk's caustic gazes, like one of those exquisite silver figurines the Joker collected in his shop, dark stains forming on her shiny surface until she reflected nothing but the town's malignancy. It broke his heart, except that too he had lost so long ago he had stopped counting. It beat in someone else's chest now. Or, perhaps, she would become one of the Joker's collectibles, an exotic creature that the greedy trickster knew how to possess only through taxidermy, too blind to realize that in caging her and taking all that she had to give, leaving only the hollow husk for his eyes' pleasure, he was pinning his own soul in a butterfly case. And then, all the King's horses and all the King's men would trample the eggshell that was left of him, and use the debris to fertilize the Queen's rose garden. He did not pity him, because no monster deserved pity. It was insulting to its nature. He knew a thing or two about monsters. He greeted one in the mirror every morning.

He was not naive enough to think he would save her, because he himself was irredeemably lost, but watching her, he wondered if, guided by her resplendence, he would find a light at the end of his tunnel vision (that was really a rabbit hole). But he would not get ahead of himself, and so, he watched.

But something had changed. Every time he picked up the fresh crisp newspaper, as was his habit every morning for the last 28 years, his heart, had it still been there, would have constricted in pain. He got his news from the same vendor who set up shop across from the diner. One morning, very soon, the man would be eager to sell. On that morning, perhaps just like this one, unmarked by any signs the Fates left behind for their oracles to decipher, the usual news of the boatman pissing on the Queen's bushes would be replaced with something more substantial.

He picked up his newspaper, and thanked the Fates, for the first time in ages, that this was not that morning. But when it came, as he knew it would, he hoped he could at least provide the fragile little crystal girl with shelter. This trap, the elaborate web of lies, was in part his doing, and it would crush and shatter her. Of that, he was sure.

He folded the newspaper under his arm, and fished out his pocket watch, which never worked anyway, because it could not measure something that didn't exist, but its weight against his palm quieted his thoughts. He could almost hear, in the distance, the implacable machinery of the trap slowly springing into motion, gears aligning sluggishly, rusty springs contracting with a screech, the creaking and groaning of a monstrous mechanism whose only purpose was to extinguish anything of beauty, leaving in its wake the lifeless banality of broken hearts and missing heads.

He was about to walk away when he saw his target, rushing towards the diner. Her expression was especially scintillating this morning, the smile dancing in her eyes to a melody only she could hear. She turned in his direction and her blue gaze caught on him before disentangling itself, moving on to better sights. Before she looked away, she gave him a small smile and an almost imperceptible nod, then disappeared inside the diner.

The man turned on his heels and walked stiffly to his observation spot. He rubbed his hand on his face. He was relieved to find it where it was meant to be. For a few seconds he had wondered whether his head had gone missing again.


	18. Chapter 18: Pomegranate Seeds

**As always, folks, thanks for reading, reviewing, and adding! You all are great. Now, this chapter is (mostly) fluff, but I hope you enjoy.**

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**Chapter 18**

**In which what comes before the storm isn't exactly calm**

**"_When you are lonely, when you feel yourself an alien in the world, play Chess. This will raise your spirits and be your counselor in war" - __Aristotle_**

**"_IsoldA: The only way to be alone is to behave as though we are alone already." ― Victor Pelevin, The Helmet of Horror: The Myth of Theseus and the Minotaur_**

" - What sort of story do you fancy?"

She stood by his side, mouth slightly agape in wonder at the stunning array of books that filled the entire south wall of the room, floor to ceiling. She wanted to run a finger along their spines, the multiplicity of textures and colors making the library look like the scaled back of some magical creature that slumbered quietly in its vault.

She had discovered the library the day before. After their washer debacle, he had offered her a tour of the house, probably as much to distract himself as to entertain her, and she accepted gratefully, curiosity temporarily displacing the other complicated tangle of emotions that his proximity evoked.

The first floor was the repository of ten thousand things. Every available surface was colonized by disparate objects, each piece somehow unique and significant, and they jostled each other for supremacy and attention until all that remained was a cacophony of miscellanea. The motley totality did not produce the impression of disorder, however, but of infinite complexity.

The second floor was the exact opposite. She had thought, at first, that the guest quarters were so immaculate and tastefully sparse because he had hired an interior designer, and then forgot all about their existence, but once she saw some of the other rooms lining the long balustrade, she realized her original assumption had been erroneous.

Apart from her guest room, and what she inferred was the entrance to his bedroom, the long hallway was flanked with a door on each side. One led to something best described as a "drawing room" - a square sun-drenched space, which, instead of easels and paints, housed a grand piano, smack in the middle, its dark varnished flank gleaming luxuriously under the skylight. The wood was worn around the edges, and the keys had acquired the dusty ivory color of old parchment. Ella wondered if it was tuned, and whether the owner ever played it. For some odd reason, she expected him to have other exotic musical instruments scattered about the house. Perhaps a harpsichord tucked in a corner? Then again, how many pianos could one man have?

The other room was the library. The windows were curtained with heavy brocaded drapes, in a rich burgundy, and the air was saturated with the dry smell of old paper, dust, and lemon wax, somewhat reminiscent of the smell in his shop. The furnishing was almost austere in its simplicity: a large oak desk and wooden office chair, a strict dark brown leather couch, a marble top end-table with a reading lamp, a wrought-iron chandelier. And then, rows upon rows of books. The library felt like it had been plucked from a different time and place, and smuggled into this reality while no-one was looking. No wonder, she smiled to herself, that he kept the curtains drawn - it felt like his own private treasure trove, intensely inhabited, as if his presence lingered, pooling around the legs of the furniture and seeping between the book bindings.

" - I don't see any bones" she turned to him, fighting back a smile. For some reason, needling him was much more satisfying if she could keep a straight face, but her humor fought her efforts as obstinately as a helium balloon fought gravity, always finding its way to the surface, no matter how far down she pushed it.

" - Should there be?" he asked, eyebrows raised, but one corner of his lips curved up, marking the beginning of a lopsided grin. Ella noted with acute pleasure that his smiles around her seemed more unguarded, almost devoid of the bitter aftertaste of irony.

She assessed the room critically.

" - You said so yourself. Lairs need scattered bones. It adds to the ambiance."

" - Oh? By which you mean that you have decided that I am a monster, after all?" There was a darkness behind his eyes, but she shook her head, letting her smile bloom fully, and watched the storm in his irises dissipate.

" - By which I mean that this is where you spend a lot of your time. And hoard your treasures."

He let his eyes wonder along the rows of books, smiling slightly, and Ella couldn't help but follow his gaze, his collector's pride contagious.

" - Well, I'd consider it, but I'm afraid too many bones might clash with the curtains." She snorted, shaking her head. He turned to her, his eyes lit with that humorous spark that seemed to settle in them whenever she initiated one of their verbal sparring sessions.

" - But it does appear that I have acquired an innocent victim, hmm?" The grin he gave her was sharp and a bit predatory.

" - No such thing!" She propped her fist on her hip theatrically, adopting an outraged teapot stance.

" - Not a victim?" He asked slyly.

Ella blushed, unsure of what to do with the sudden excess of meaning.

" - How about a willing victim?" she asked, beaming at him. It wasn't the most elegant parry, but it got the ball over into his court.

Gold's eyes widened, and he emitted a unidentifiable sound, somewhere halfway between a breathless chuckle and a surprised snort. If she kept it up, the situation would get out of her hands again, and probably right into his. She shook her head, trying to make her train of thoughts deviate from its habitual rails. Her better half protested, determined to impart on the rest of her mind that the gutter was a perfectly sound choice of habitation. She threatened the lizard brain with images of a meteor-induced ice-age, but the scaly reptile was undeterred, lumbering on its side of the fence with self-satisfied smugness.

Her companion appeared to weigh her words carefully.

" - I doubt that willing victims would effectively affirm my status as monster" he trailed speculatively.

" - Why? Do you think I'll clash with the curtains too?"

There was a momentary pause, then he threw his head back and laughed, the sound warm on her skin. She tried not to smile too widely, which made her cheeks dimple. He must have noticed because he passed the phalanx of his forefinger over the small indentation, his eyes lit up from the inside with a complex emotion she couldn't quite decipher.

" - I don't know about the curtains, love, but I do believe we should check whether you match the couch." Ella cocked an eyebrow at the endearment. It was as if his mouth had formed it on automatic, and once it had flown out, there was no caging it back. Then the ambiguity of the sentence dawned on her, two contradictory impulses battling in her head for the right to interpretation. The lizard brain supplied its own unhelpful assessment, which made her blush fiercely. Its less reptilian counterpart wanted to kick him. She settled on gaping at him in mock outrage, then wrinkled her nose, and jabbed a finger under his ribs. He made an inarticulate sound of surprised displeasure, and turned to her with what looked like full intent to retaliate.

With a little squeal, Ella jumped out of the way and sauntered into the room, pivoting to face him in case he decided to attack. Instead, he approached, slowly and deliberately, his eyes unwaveringly riveted to her face, his expression unreadable. She found herself retreating instinctively, until she felt her back meet one of the shelves. He took one step closer, the air between them suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. Unless it was a butter knife, in which case it wouldn't cut through the tension, but could possibly slather it on toast. Ella shook her head at the idiotic thoughts.

Gold raised his hand, smirked, and plucked a volume from the shelf right by Ella's ear. She relaxed, feeling a pang of disappointment in some dark corner of her mind, but his eyes were warm, and once again brimming with that odd emotion she could not quite identify. He handed her the book.

" - I highly recommend this one, makes for entertaining reading." She looked at the title. Something called "The Adventures of Robin Hood" by R.L. Stevenson. The edition was old, its pages yellowing with age, and it came with a stunning set of black and white gravures. She eyed the book greedily. She hadn't had a chance to read anything since Henry's collection of fairy tales. He handed it to her, and made an elaborate gesture with his hand, encompassing the library.

" - The reading room is at your disposal."

He had excused himself then, muttering something about work, and retired to the desk. Ella watched him sit down behind the oak monstrosity and open a large leather ledger, a pencil in one hand, his face shuttered behind an impenetrable mask. It fit in place easily, as if he had worn it so often that it had molded to him, obscuring his real emotions, but she was beginning to learn his face enough to see the seams where the mask ended, and the being underneath begun. She decided to let him wear it, without trying to pry it off. She too had her small rituals that helped hold the pieces together.

She moved to the couch with the book, curled up in a corner, and let herself get lost in the story. She caught him glancing at her on occasion, then quickly averting his gaze when she noticed, and so she smiled at the pages and lost entire paragraphs, her mind elsewhere. She did not remember falling asleep, but she woke up in her bed, bundled up in a blanket, her book on the night table.

The next day, she came back from work and found him at his library desk again. Only the antique green reading lamp provided illumination, the rest of the room bathed in semi-darkness. She approached the desk quietly - she had taken to walking around the house barefoot - but he seemed to know she was there as soon as she had appeared in the doorway, lifting his head briefly, a small smile softening the sharp lines of his face.

" - I finished the book." The words were oddly muffled, swallowed by the shadows. "May I borrow another?"

He got up from his chair, and came to stand in front of the shelves, where she joined him. And this is where they were, Ella still feeling a kind of reverent awe at the prolific collection.

" - What sort of story do you fancy?"

She considered the question carefully.

" - Something with beasts in it."

" - Beasts?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

" - Beasts. Various magical creatures that don't exist in real life. And adventures. And..." she looked at him sideways. "Romance."

He chuckled.

" - Anything else you'd like in it, love?"

She gave him an unperturbed look, and smiled sweetly.

" - Deep philosophical reflections on the meaning of life and human nature. Oh, and some good fighting scenes."

He breathed out sharply, the quick exhale masking a chuckle, fingers drumming along a row of book bindings. He had a musician's hands, Ella realized, or a magician's perhaps, long nervous fingers fluttering quickly from one volume to the next.

" - I believe this answers all your criteria" he concluded. The title of the tome, by one Robert Graves, read "Myths of Ancient Greece." She took the heavy book and made for the couch, expecting him to retire to his desk, but, to her surprise, he joined her. She settled into the corner of the leather sofa, back propped against the armrest, and he sat on the other end. She opened the book at random, finding the first page of the myth she had selected, and began to read out loud, her voice tentative at first, but progressively gathering strength, her intonations changing with the demands of the plot. She stole a quick glance at her companion.

He seemed perfectly relaxed, one ankle casually propped on a knee, his eyes half-closed. Her bare feet were cold, so she extended her legs and tucked her toes under him, a deeply intimate gesture that surprised her, but he seemed content, getting ahold of one foot and rubbing it gently with his thumbs. They sat together in the small circle of light from the reading lamp, and Ella felt, for the first time since she had been released from the asylum, completely at peace.

She finished the first myth - the story of a bull-headed monster who lived in a labyrinth, and was eventually slain by the hero. She couldn't help but feel sorry for both the monster, who was monstrous by no fault of his own, and the hero, who, in the end, lost both his princess and his father. After a moment of hesitation, Ella handed the book to Gold.

" - Your turn."

He looked up in surprise, but accepted, flipped through the table of contents, and chose a story to read, something about a young goddess kidnapped by the king of the underworld, and her mother wandering the earth in an effort to find her. His thick brogue made the poetic language that much more evocative, and Ella found herself absorbed by the narrative, as if the stories were not stories at all but real events, distorted by the carnival mirrors of human memory.

The story finished, he handed her the book, but instead of moving on to another tale, she let her finger prop the pages open, and turned to him with a puzzled look.

" - Why pomegranate seeds?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows and waved his hand, a bit theatrically, in an encouragement to elaborate.

" - Well, Persephone eats a pomegranate seed, and hence has to come back to the underworld and stay with Hades for part of the year."

He nodded.

" - I don't believe it matters what she eats, as long as she eats something from Hades' realm" he offered, somewhat dismissively.

Ella shook her head.

" - Hades tricked her into eating it for a reason."

He appeared deep in thought.

" - Perhaps it counteracts the effects of Lethe?"

She reflected on the answer. The water from the river Lethe made the souls of the dead forget about their previous lives, so that they could move on.

" - Why would she drink from the river on her way out? Isn't it only the souls of those who entered the underworld that were made to drink from it?"

He reflected on her question, trailing a finger along her toe absentmindedly, and Ella tried to ignore the ticklish feeling so she wouldn't have to break contact, or scare off the answer to her question. Finally, he turned to her with a smile that had the aftertaste of dark, bitter chocolate.

" - Maybe this way she would not forget Hades."

Ella frowned.

" - How could she forget?"

He shrugged, refusing to commit to an answer. Ella huddled into the couch, wondering if she too had drank from the river Lethe, and forgotten her Hades.

" - I think it's more complicated than that" she finally managed.

The man turned to her, his brown eyes inquisitive.

" - It isn't about forgetting at all." The insights emerged out of the fog of her thoughts, sudden ships floating on a dark ocean. She searched for words to cloth the images that formed somewhere over the fence. "It's about having tasted something she wasn't supposed to taste. After that, even if she had forgotten all about Hades and the underworld, her life would still seem hollow. Like a piece was missing." She looked up at him only to find inscrutable brown eyes staring at her from the semi-darkness. For the briefest of moments, she had the illusion that his skin was made of burnished gold. It put his name curiously in context, and she realized she still didn't know his first name. Calling him "Gold" seemed to make perfect sense, even though, in the most private corner of her being, she did not feel the need to confine him within the limits of a name.

" - I think I might have drunk from Lethe too" she found herself saying, her heart suddenly twisting with a sense of irrecoverable loss.

He smiled, even though the darkness was pooling in his eyes again, seeping along the canals that lined his habitual expressions.

" - Perhaps you too had pomegranate seeds" he said quietly, looking down at his hands.

Without thinking of what she was doing, or why, Ella scooted closer to him, and threw her arms around his neck. He turned to her, touching his forehead to hers and closing his eyes, and in an absurd effort to dissipate the darkness that was threatening to swallow them both, Ella smiled, and rubbed her nose against his. He seemed startled into a reluctant chuckle, and the ice that was biting at her limbs melted away. They sat huddled together until Ella lost all sense of time, but finally, he stirred, and she released her embrace, migrating back to her end of the couch. Something bit uncomfortably into her back, and she extricated the book lodged between the cushions, pressing it to her chest.

" - You don't remember yet, but you will." The words felt like an omen, a sense of foreboding settling in her bones, and she shuddered, hugging the book closer as if it could protect her from whatever was coming. He left the room without looking back, and with a sense of deep misery, Ella wondered what she had done wrong.

Eventually, she made it back to her room, still holding the book for dear life. She curled up on the bed, fully clothed and too exhausted to care, but Morpheus had made himself scarce. She kept dozing off and waking up intermittently, visions of pomegranate seeds and dark waters that swallowed all recollections floating across her restless consciousness.

After an eternity of the petty torture, she got up, and marched firmly into the hallway. She hesitated only briefly before knocking on the one door in the house she hadn't opened before.

"- Come in." The invitation rung out immediately, and she concluded that the blasted sleep god was ignoring the entire household. Well, at least it wasn't personal.

She pushed the door open and snuck inside, the room dark and saturated with that peculiar scent, somewhere halfway between incense and burning juniper. She could see the large shape of the bed, and, in one corner, where the light of a faraway street lamp filtered through the curtain, a looming circular shape, like a giant wheel standing upright.

She sat at the edge of the bed. The mattress rustled and felt odd to the touch, as if it contained sharp prickly objects. It smelled of hay.

" - What on Earth is this?" She asked, puzzled, and prodded the mattress with her finger. It made a rustling sound. "Do you sleep on a bed of nails?" She giggled, a sly note creeping into her voice. "Ooh, do you charm snakes and fly on a carpet, too?" She suddenly felt giddy, and underneath the absurd onslaught of good humor, there was the vertiginous feeling that the fence that ran through her mind was morphing and growing thin, more of a veil or an ornate screen than an enclosure.

He chuckled in the darkness.

" - It's straw, love. And no, I am not a fakir. My charm doesn't seem to work well on snakes."

She wiggled up and sat cross legged on the vacant side of the oversized straw pallet, the smell of hay overwhelming.

" - How did you even get it? They can't possibly sell these in stores!"

" - You'd be surprised."

" - Surely, this can't be comfortable?" she asked.

She felt, more than saw him shrug.

" - Old habits die hard."

He didn't move or say anything else, as if waiting for what she would do next. She eased herself under the covers, and curled up on her side, facing him, one hand under her cheek.

" - I can't sleep. I keep dreaming of pomegranate seeds and water."

He chuckled quietly.

" - I suppose it could be worse. You could be dreaming of the Minotaur."

Ella yawned, her body relaxing, and she was suddenly struggling to keep her eyes open.

" - Do you think it moos?"

" - Pardon?"

She snickered, but it turned into a convulsive yawn.

" - The Minotaur. Hard to be intimidating if all you can do is moo at people."

By the way the mattress shook slightly, her companion was laughing silently.

" - Theseus the cow tipper" she mumbled, half asleep, finding the thought both ridiculous and hilarious.

At some point, before sleep claimed her completely, she felt herself being gathered into a tight embrace, and she curled up closer, tucked her nose into her strange bedfellow's shoulder, and fell blissfully asleep.

She dreamt of sunshine and fresh cut grass.

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**Voila. The next chapter will get back to plot progression, I promise.**


	19. Chapter 19: The Worth of a Picture

******Folks, I'm so very sorry for the terribly long hiatus. I haven't abandoned you all, but real life caught up with me, and needed to be dealt with ;) Anyway, I'm back in the swing of things, so here's the next installment. Always, reviews and comments very welcome!**

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**Chapter 19**

**In which Dr Hopper tries to resist hasty analysis**

_**"Man is a frivolous, specious creature, and like a Chess player, cares more for the process of attaining his goal than the goal itself." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky**_

"- Dr Hopper? Are you listening to me?" He focused his eyes on the blond woman sitting across from him, noticing the tense worry lines around her mouth, and the single vertical wrinkle creasing the skin between her eyebrows. She was looking more anxious than usual, and he wondered what had happened to give Emma Swan that feral, caged look, like a predator backed into a corner by a relentless hunter.

He had been lost in his thoughts again, and finding his way back to the surface required effort, as if producing speech had suddenly become an insurmountable challenge. Whenever he concentrated on a problem, his brain dispensed with language, and the trance made words feel alien and awkward on his tongue, their taste unfamiliar. Archie rubbed his face with his hands, trying to break through the aphasia, and return to the land of the speaking.

" - Yes, Ms Swan. I'm sorry. I've just been trying to concentrate on this..." He gestured helplessly to the table between them, covered completely with a motley crew of documents, photographs, files, clip-outs of newspaper articles, dirty coffee mugs that seemed to multiply of their own accord, and even a few entirely superfluous objects, such as his frog-shaped ashtray into which he emptied the spent contents of his pipe, and, for no reason he could remember, Emma Swan's car wrench.

Since the sheriff had taken over his office with her "case," the space had started to feel alien to him, the previously cheerful yellow walls suddenly turning oppressive. He vaguely recalled some endless Russian XIX century novel, perhaps something by Dostoevsky, where yellow used to symbolize insanity - "the yellow house," a euphemism for a psychiatric asylum. There was a subtle irony to it, especially since he couldn't quite recall selecting this particular lemon custard hue for his work space.

The sheriff was looking at him with a mix of worry and irritation, which was already beginning to mold and shape her still supple skin into the mask she would wear when she grew older. Young people have the face that nature blessed them with, and old people have the face they deserved, or so the adage went. He wondered what others could read of his life on his own face, feeling a sudden pang of paranoia at the possibility of his interior world spilling out into his features, beyond his conscious awareness or ability to control.

They had been at it for almost four hours, well past his own work schedule, and with remarkably little progress to show for it. Emma Swan had phoned him, already so late in the evening, to get his opinion on a case she was struggling to solve. He wondered what motivated the sudden urgency, the panicked hitch in her voice on the phone. He could not say no, not simply because he thought of it as, at least partially, his duty, as the only expert in town, but largely because of that brittle quality to sheriff Swan's tone, as if the young woman had finally reached the end of her rope.

Archie sighed and stretched, trying to ease the dull ache in his lower back, but felt no better.

" - Sheriff Swan, I think that maybe we should wrap up for the night." They hadn't made any headway, so another hour of meaningless staring at the materials would probably not advance things any further. He looked at her hopefully, but judging by the grim set of the woman's jaw, she would not budge. "At least, let us try a new approach" he relented finally. The sheriff crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned back in her chair. She looked as frustrated as Archie felt.

" - It makes no sense. There is quite a bit of evidence, little signs all pointing in the same direction, and yet nothing conclusive. What does that tell us?" The question was largely rhetorical, but Archie chose to answer. Perhaps talking had its uses, after all.

" - It tells us that we are not looking at the evidence from the correct angle." He interlaced his fingers over his lap, and leaned back, looking at the ceiling but seeing only the interior of his own thoughts.

" - Instead of working backward, lets try to work forward. Lets assume, for the time being, that the mannequin of Madam Mayor was indeed made by the same person who made all the other pieces."

" - By Ella French" the sheriff reminded him, with a sigh. Archie thought she did not seem entirely convinced either, but unlike Archie himself, she looked like she was not ready to let go of the apparent facts.

" - Yes." He felt a reluctance there, all his professional instincts telling him that something was terribly wrong with this assessment, but he could not argue with the evidence. The simplest explanation was often the correct one. "Let's assume that all of the pieces were made by Ella French. Then we should consider them in sequence. There is obviously a narrative structure to them. If we can work out what that is, we might gain some insights into all the other questions."

Sheriff Swan groaned, dropped her forehead towards the table, and mimicked a "beating head against the wall" gesture, in a demonstration of annoyance. Archie smiled at the sudden display of humor. The young woman was typically serious and intense, so the sudden irony gave him a glimpse of a softer side, less bruised by life and it's tribulations. The side, he thought, that Henry usually brought out in her.

" - You're the shrink, you tell me what we're missing. Because I'm confused..." she admitted, waving her hand in a gesture of befuddlement. "If these are Ms French's doing, she is obviously troubled, but that's your area of expertise. Mine is to figure out whether she's dangerous."

Archie collected the photographs and lined them up in a chronological order, side by side, like a deck of divination cards.

" - Are you sure she hasn't been taking her medication?" he asked the sheriff, and the blonde nodded slowly.

" - By and large, yeah." She exhaled, pressing her thumb and forefinger against her closed eyelids, as if to chase away a head ache. "Look, the bottle of meds was sort of tucked behind all sorts of other stuff in the medicine cabinet. If she took it every day, wouldn't she place it somewhere where she wouldn't be knocking things off on the way to it?" Archie nodded, but must have not looked entirely pursuaded, because the sheriff continued. "You're right, that wouldn't be very conclusive, except that the amount of remaining pills didn't match the prescription dates."

Archie rubbed his tired eyes underneath his glasses, almost in perfect mimicry of the sheriff's preceding gesture.

" - Were there too many pills? Perhaps she has been forgetting to take them?"

Sheriff Swan shook her head.

" - There were too few." She let the information sink in, but Archie simply shrugged, waiting for her to share her conclusion with him. "She must be emptying the bottle at regular intervals, but not counting off the pills. I couldn't find any of the discarded ones, but if I were in her shoes, I'd flush them down the toilet."

Archie nodded. Certainly, the fact that Ella French was foregoing her pills were alarming. But what was more interesting, provided that the sheriff's assessments were correct, was why Ms French felt the need to pretend that she was, in fact, taking her medication in the first place. She must have felt threatened on some level, spied upon, perhaps. Paranoia was not uncommon with her condition, although he was starting to wonder whether the diagnosis had been fabricated - it was as if the person writing it out had acquired their basic knowledge of mental illness from popular culture, rather than formal training. Now, assuming Ms French was not, in fact, saddled with half of the DSM-IV, but was, by and large, psychologically normal, why would she pretend to take the medication, unless she thought that someone might drop in and check on her? Was she hiding it from Mr Gold, who, after all, was the owner of the apartment building? This, of course, would be the most logical conclusion. If the rumors making the rounds of the town were correct, he was more than a landlord. Emma Swan, for example, seemed fairly certain that the two were romantically involved.

The fact itself was quite odd. He could not remember the pawnbroker ever associating with anyone outside of his business deals. The man did not appear to have friends, let alone romantic interests, and Archie thought the pawnbroker preferred it that way. He wondered whether the barriers Mr Gold had erected around himself were meant to keep things out, or keep things in. That Ms French was apparently given diplomatic access to the recluse's private life either spoke of her exceptional nature, or of a long and complex prior history. Or possibly both.

He stared at the pictures arranged in front of him, his tired eyes stinging and tearing up at the corners, and he longed for his quiet apartment, his dog greeting him with a wagging tail and happy bark, for the tranquility of his bedroom, a good book, a cup of chamomile tea that smelled of sun-warmed grass in the summer. But duty came first, as it always did, and he returned his attention to the present moment, trying to decipher the story locked away in the images. He checked the penciled in labels on the back of the photos, committing the dates to memory. It appeared that they had been made in a tight sequence, a few days apart, except for the second to last one, the one that preceded the Regina doll.

There was a total of seven shots, plus Regina, which was number eight. The first three photographs depicted an arrangement of Barbie dolls and other children's toys. They were set up on a picnic table, planted in the middle of the town square, and represented what he could only describe as a siege. A castle, built with painted Styrofoam bricks, occupied the central part of the table, topped with three figures - a female Barbie princess, a teddy bear, and a male action figure doll, all arranged in such a way as to appear as if they were looking down from the ramparts, towards an army of miniature plastic trolls that circled the castle. Beyond the ring of trolls, the table was strewn with disarticulated bits of toys - plastic limbs, heads, and torsos arranged in a jumbled mess, and sprinkled with red paint. A particularly gruesome image that the photographer had captured was a mangled female doll, her head lying a few inches from the rest of her, face turned towards the camera lens, blond hair matted with red paint. Her naked body, sprawled obscenely on the table surface a few inches away, had been carefully painted to display the traces of assault and torture.

Dr Hopper rubbed his face. The weariness had settled into his bones, snaking up his spine and spreading in a dull ache between his shoulder blades. He tried to loosen his stiff neck, but it was as if his body was turning to wood.

The next picture depicted a new scene. The princess had lost her pretty dress and was clad in a burlap sack, something he guessed that used to be a bag of rice, with holes cut out for the head and arms. A dollar bill had been glued to the center of the bag.

The castle was gone, the table cleared of both trolls, and doll parts. The three earlier figures were there again, although he thought the dolls were slightly different. There was a new toy on the scene - a rather unsightly joker puppet with an evil leer, his skin painted in gold paint. The puppet held a miniature leash, something taken off from a plush toy dog, most likely, which was secured to a collar around the princess's neck. The teddy-bear and action figure were leaning over a plastic pirate chest of gold. Across the canvas and its motley menagerie, red letters were drawn, running in diagonal. "The price of peace."

The third picture displayed the princess, now wearing a yellow satin dress, and the joker puppet, having tea. The leash was no longer in the Joker's hand, and Archie looked for it until he found it, barely visible in the grainy photograph. The collar was now fastened around the puppet's foot, and the end of the leash was laid out on the princess's lap. An interesting symbolism of reversed dependency, Archie thought. The dolls were positioned in such a way as to suggest a kind of companionable, almost flirtatious rapport.

The fourth picture marked a shift. It depicted an overflowing garbage bin, with the Barbie princess stuffed head first into it, with only her legs, partially concealed by the stiff fabric of her yellow dress, jutting out vertically from the heap of refuse. The joker stood at a distance with his back to the bin, his head bowed down. The photograph did not show his face, but focused instead on the leash, discarded half way between the trash bin and the joker puppet.

Pictures five and six were strikingly different. The characters were still the same, but their clothing had changed to more modern fashions. Archie reflected that this most likely marked the artist's experience of coming of age, a loss of innocence when little girls no longer identified with princesses. The first scene depicted a wedding, or at least, he thought it was a wedding, since the action figure and the former princess were arranged on top of a plastic wedding cake. The princess wore what would qualify as a meringue wedding dress, if meringues came in scarlet. The teddy bear, who Archie began to associated with the princess's father, was sitting on a pile of Monopoly money.

The sixth picture re-introduced the joker puppet, this time clad in a business suit. The leash had reappeared, coiled tightly around both the puppet and the Barbie doll, effectively binding them together, back to back. The action figure stood a bit apart from the pair, holding an oversized gun in an equally oversized arm, and pointing it at the joker. Archie frowned. This was a story of jealousy, he thought, and it matched perfectly the rumors about Ella French.

He moved on to the last picture. The seventh photograph marked another shift. It no longer depicted children's toys, but an arrangement of mannequins. The symbolism had shifted as well. Three starkly abstract plastic figures were arranged in an odd pattern, a naked female form, painted a crimson red, sat in a monumental chair, almost like a throne. Before it stood a platform covered in a thick layer of equally red rose petals. Another mannequin, his skin painted gold, was genuflecting before the platform, and holding up a metal bowl, in polished copper, the surface capturing the reflection of a far away light and casting it back at the camera. The bowl contained some kind of dark substance, in the shape of something vaguely organic. The photograph wasn't detailed enough to be able to assess what the mess was, but Archie thought, with a little shudder, that it looked like some kind of internal organ, perhaps an animal's heart. Laid out atop of the "altar" in the bed of rose petals, in front of the golden figure, was another male mannequin, completely black safe for the gaping red hole in his chest.

Archie rubbed his eyes. The photograph was almost hypnotic, aesthetically riveting despite the horror it depicted. The symbolism was quite clear. A sacrifice.

The psychiatrist looked up at sheriff Swan through his thick heavy glasses, and was met with a questioning stare. Like a man getting ready to take a leap into a dark, forbidding ocean, Archie decided to venture his theory.

" - I think this tells us the story of what Ella French felt had happened to her. I'm not entirely clear on the details, but I think the gist is fairly obvious."

Emma Swan nodded slowly.

" - Okay. What's your take on it?"

He began. "This tells us a story about a young woman, probably on the cusp of adulthood - that's the Barbie princess symbolism, it's quite common for young girls to identify themselves with a culturally recognized icon of femininity when they are developing their sense of gender roles - that becomes the central piece in a set of social transactions. I think the teddy bear - that's the girl's father, note the simultaneously tender association of the soft plush toy, offset by the ratty worn quality of its fur here and here - falls on hard times, most likely of a financial nature. Her child's psyche experiences this as an assault on their home - the castle - by these troll figures heres. Note how the hue of the trolls is green, most likely symbolizing money. He lifted the first photograph for Emma to see, and she nodded, so he proceeded. "Children very frequently distort and extrapolate adults' troubles into fairytale battles with monsters, much like your own Henry." He looked up to see if the last statement had made the Sheriff uncomfortable, but judging by her expression, she was intensely focused on the content of his explanation. "I think Ella French's father, that would be Moe French, made a deal with the joker figure, whom I believe to be Mr Gold."

" - What kind of deal, exactly?" The sheriff's eyes were narrowed suspiciously. He shrugged.

" - I don't know. The leash here suggests some kind of servitude, but I think it's more than that. It's also portraying another kind of bond - see how the meaning shifts from picture to picture here... Obviously, I don't know what the arrangement was, but it seems that their relationship started off as perhaps a labor arrangement, but evolved into a kind of emotional dependency, ambiguously so because as you can see here, he's the one who is now "on a leash," as it were, and she is holding the reins."

Sheriff Swan nodded, and pointed to the next picture.

" - And here he throws off the shackles, and discards her. So you're saying he maybe fired her? Or broke up with her?"

Archie shook his head pensively, slightly annoyed that the sheriff insisted on such a literal interpretation. Although, of course, such was the difference in their professions.

" - I think it's more complicated, Ms Swan. Keep in mind that this is all from Ella's perspective. She is experiencing the events as him discarding her, perhaps rejecting the bond that she is beginning to feel between them."

Sheriff Swan nodded again, so Archie continued.

" - And here, you can see that she has grown up, hence the modern clothes. She is no longer identifying herself as a child. This marks her entry into adulthood, as she remembers it. Note here that we have a recurring theme, her father profiting from another transaction in which Ella French is experiencing herself as an object. This is a young woman who is having a lot of trouble coming to terms with her role as a dependent, as it were, she is feeling objectified and instrumentalized by those close to her, and we can see how she is struggling with it in the symbolism of the tableaux, yes?"

Emma Swan nodded again, her expression softening in sympathy. Archie reflected that Ms Swan was, herself, a fiercely independent woman, and so he wondered what that independence, no doubt gained through hard battles, had cost her.

" - Is this about an arranged marriage? Maybe her marriage to Gus Tonner was something that had financial reasoning behind it."

Archie nodded emphatically.

" - Yes, I think that's right, or at least I think she's seeing how her father might profit from it, from what I understand, Gus Tonner was the sole heir of a rather large family fortune. Ella of course is sensing all of this, and again, it shows in her work."

" - What about this picture? The leash is back. Is she cheating with Gold?"

Archie sighed heavily.

" - I think that's a possibility, and either way, I think the leash symbolizes a strong emotional bond. I think this picture depicts a kind of renewed connection between them."

Sheriff Swan harrumphed.

" - I'd say." She looked closer. "So this action figure is Gus, right? I'd say he's threatening them with a gun."

Archie shrugged and nodded.

" - Finally, the last picture."

" - Doesn't look like her MO at all." Sheriff Swan trailed speculatively.

" - On the contrary, look closer!" She stared at the pictures, her eyebrows knitted together in an expression of puzzlement.

" - I think the use of mannequins instead of children's toys is deliberate. I would say it stands for the greater impact of the events, it's closer to "life" if you will. The stakes are suddenly much higher here, it's no longer a children's game. Notice how the color coding continues from the previous tableaux: Ella is still red, both the puppet and the male mannequin with the bowl are painted gold, and even the last mannequin is more muscular than the other two, suggesting a parallelism with the action figure."

Emma Swan nodded, focusing her attention on the second to last image.

" - What's in the bowl? This was the original thing that got the town's panties in a wad, I think. It looks... organic."

" - An animal's heart, I think. I believe it depicts a sacrifice. There seem to be several layers of meaning here - on the surface, Gold's mannequin here - and I think it, literally, refers to his name, hence the gold skin - is sacrificing the third figure, whom I believe to be Mr Tonner. To Ella. Notice the altar-like arrangement here, and the enactment of a kind of pagan ritual."

" - Are you saying he kills him?" Sheriff Swan's mouth was set in a grim line.

" - I am not saying that, no. What I am saying, however, is that Ms French feels that Gus Tonner's death is partially her responsibility."

Sheriff Swan trained her green gaze on Archie, and he felt like someone who suddenly notices a red laser dot slowly creeping across his chest, and making the vital organ beating there distinctly uneasy. It was not a comfortable feeling, and Archie fidgeted.

" - Dr Hopper, I appreciate your astute attention to symbols, but I think you're forgetting that this is all happening against the background of a very suspicious death."

" - It isn't enough to constitute any kind of evidence, Ms Swan."

" - Yes, but you have to admit it looks... bad. I mean, in the previous photograph, the girl is obviously having an affair with Gold, and Tonner - he's the action figure, right? - is threatening them with a gun. And in the last one, Tonner is dead, his heart removed, and Gold is offering it in a bowl to Ms French. I'd say, he kills him, thinking that she'd be pleased with it, and I guess maybe she feels bad about it. Or maybe not. She looks... like she's sitting on a throne."

Dr Hopper rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

" - Keep in mind that being put on a pedestal can be a rather confining experience. My point is, we shouldn't jump to conclusions."

" - Look, I know there were signs of foul play with that Tonner guy. He was beaten with something - it wasn't in the coroner's report, but it was in the forensic photographs. Obviously, I don't know what the weapon is, but, to be honest, the closest thing I can think of is Gold's cane. This seems to hint at the possibility that he had something to do with it as well." She got up.

" - Ms Swan, where are you going?" Archie Hopper felt the sour taste of panic coating the back of his tongue. The woman was so hell-bent on advancing the case that she made huge leaps, where he felt they needed to take baby steps. But before he could berate her for making a professionally shoddy decision, he noticed that earlier urgency in the set of her features, the way her entire body moved with a kind of excess of barely contained muscular tension.

" - I'm going to talk to her father. See if I can turn anything up on his side."

" - Ms Swan, you mustn't... I'm sorry. I just think that you're moving a little too fast on this."

Sheriff Swan sighed, her shoulders hunching.

" - I don't have a choice, Archie." She looked up at him, and for a split second he saw the thing that Emma Swan worked hard to conceal beneath her steely mask. It was fear. The kind of fear that gnawed on your bones, and twisted your entrails in a knot, the one fear that went beyond self-preservation or other selfish emotions that put ego first. It was the fear of losing someone you cherish.

His opened his mouth, his instincts propelling him into counselor mode, but he caught himself. Theirs was a professional relationship. She was not his client, and the least he could do was to give her the courtesy of discretion.

" - What do you mean?" That seemed diplomatic enough.

Emma Swan stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket, an expression of deep misery painting her pretty face with the uncharacteristic colors of vulnerability.

" - I can't see my kid until I solve this damn Regina doll business. She's lording it over me. It's not like I have visiting privileges, it's all in her hands. Whatever Madam Bloody Mayor happens to decide at the moment. And I can't do this to Henry." Her voice was hitching dangerously, so she tried to hide its brittleness under an extra layer of belligerence. "Every time he calls, he just sounds so sad, asks me about "Operation Cobra," and how he's figured out another theory and wants to hash it out over a cup of hot chocolate. I can't even look at cinnamon without feeling like I'm gonna just... fall apart, you know. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

" - Sheriff Swan, you know that running head first into a set of easy conclusions isn't a solution either." He hoped his tone softened the harsh content of his words. Archie Hopper rarely felt anger, but her felt it stir, deeply buried in the dark part of his psyche where he kept all his other monsters. Yet, no matter how much he felt for the woman in front of him, his professionalism refused to be shelved. It had been his only life boat for so many years, and it always superseded all this other drives.

" - I know, but I can't sit on my hands with the evidence practically screaming at me, either."

" - It..." Archie couldn't quite put into words the screeching protest from his instincts, and before he finally managed to formulate the thought, the door was closing behind Sheriff Swan.

" - ... doesn't look right" he finally exhaled, more to himself than to anyone else, and let his forehead rest against his palm.

This would undoubtedly end poorly.


	20. Chapter 20: Message in a Bottle

**Folks, as always thank you so much for the reviews and comments! You make my day. This chapter isn't all that substantial, but just to keep things going. Feedback always very welcome and gratefully received!**

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**Chapter 20**

**In which Leroy does his best**

_** "Chess is a fairy tale of 1001 blunders" - Savielly Tartakower**_

It was getting to be late, and he was already on his third pint, though the beer might as well be piglet piss for all the punch it had. There were a few stragglers in the diner, besides himself. Sad lonely geezers who put off the moment when they had to go back to whatever sad excuse they called home, most likely because there was nothing particularly exciting waiting for them there. Same old crap, whether you lived alone or with others, the same loneliness, like a prison sentence, until you finally got fed up and stopped breathing.

He took a swig, winced at the stale taste, and banged the mug on the counter. Then again, everyone had a coping mechanism. The world was an exploitative rat hole, with the big fishes systematically crunching on the little fishes, until some bigger, nastier, toothier bastard came around and crunched on them in nature's perverse sense of justice. Leroy didn't have many illusions about the kind of fish he was. He didn't have the money or the social capital to throw his weight around and pretend to everyone, himself included, that he was high up on the food chain. Small puddle that the town was, it had its share of carnivores. But he'd be damned if he became snack food for any of them. Best he could do, he figured, was to become toxic enough that the more dangerous inhabitants left him well enough alone, for fear of chipping a tooth or getting indigestion. Being the resident alcoholic was part and parcel of his puffer fish strategy.

He looked around at the other denizens. Speaking of fish, there was the Whale guy, trying to drown his sorrows in two fingers of scotch. By the sour look on his face, the sorrows just wouldn't sink. Oh, cry me a river, he thought caustically, the ginger made more money in a day than what Leroy would scrounge together in a month.

No matter how pricey his swill, it didn't seem to make the good doctor any less of a depressed jackass. For some people, the glass was always half empty, no matter how much they poured.

In a corner booth, he noticed the old woman, with the milky eyes, huddled in a corner over a cup of steaming liquid, probably tea, although by the way she was mumbling to herself, apparently for lack of a better interlocutor, Leroy decided that the tea must have been spiked with something.

Ruby stood behind the counter, wiping glasses and throwing alarmed glances at Whale, who would no doubt start drooling over the pretty waitress any time now. Leroy scowled in his general direction. Ruby might be the party girl sort, but that didn't mean that Whale was entitled to hit on her as soon as his blood alcohol level reached the proper amount. Leroy couldn't abide men who used liquor as an excuse to start disrespecting women. Just because your brain was on hold didn't mean you had license to think with your junk.

Then, there was the other fellow. That was unusual, and caught his attention. Leroy scrutinized the lanky creep with undisguised disapproval. Not only did the guy dress like he had escaped from a Renaissance Fair, but his entire demeanor was a little off, from his speech to the way he moved. He was a rare sight in town, though, so something must have made the freak crawl out of his hiding hole, and into the light of day. Or of the fluorescent overheads, as the case may be. Leroy frowned. He might be a drunk, but he was an observant drunk, so he'd noticed that Captain Trench-coat had made a habit of coming in whenever Ella was working the night shift. Leroy didn't think that was a coincidence. While he was on the topic of fish, he wondered how the girl's newfound admirer would square with the loan shark.

Leroy didn't have anything good to say about that relationship, and so he said nothing. It was bound for disaster, and that was as obvious as a nose in the middle of one's face. But, like a nose, one never paid much attention to one's own. But Ella seemed happy, with a little extra bounce in her step, and twinkles in her eyes, and Leroy couldn't force himself to burst her bubble. After all, who was he to judge? The fine folk of Storybrooke were providing plenty of commentary as it was, and he had no interest in adding to the tongue wagging. He frowned at his beer mug, wincing at the memory of some of the more obnoxious contributions. The thing that pissed him off the most was that all the negativity was almost exclusively directed at Ella. It had ranged from judgments about her being "morally loose" to being a "gold digger," out to get the pawnbroker's money. He'd show them gold diggers, he thought angrily. With a pick ax.

Then it went on to her being soft in the head, to the most preposterous of them all, a dangerous sociopath at large. The gossips started off by speculating that Gold had something to do with that Gus kid's death all those years ago, but then money must have done its magic again. If you were rich, it was apparently unthinkable that you'd commit a crime. Must be the poor crazy girl. So the town had readjusted its suspicions, and now in the bastards' collective consciousness, or whatever the fancy word was for universal idiocy, it was Ella who had done him in. That last bit had nearly drove him into a murderous rage. It was that nasty Mother Superior from the convent, speaking louder than was necessary, so everyone in the diner could hear her. It had made Leroy regret stopping by for coffee. Spiritual compassion, his hairy ass.

He looked sadly in the direction of the closed kitchen door. Let her enjoy the small measure of happiness she was dealt, before the universe remembered it was in the business of making her life miserable, and redoubled its efforts. If things got really bad, she could always come hide in his dump of a house, until things settled. Or maybe he'd take her to the boat. She might like that. Fishing always calmed him, and she looked like a guy's gal. She might enjoy a fishing trip, even though she'd probably release the catch back into the water.

He wasn't sure how he had become so attached to the curly haired pixie, but Ella seemed to simply accept him, warts and all. In her company he felt marginally like a human being, and not an entire waste of space. If people could pick their family, like children picking other kids for their team, he'd pick Ella for his little sister. He wasn't interested in her romantically, of course, and, besides, it looked like she had enough admirers without him joining the ranks, but the feeling ran deep nonetheless, and feelings, especially of the positive variety, weren't something Leroy was used to. The problem with caring for people was that you inevitably ended up getting obsessively worried about their well-being.

With that thought, he returned his attention to the lanky creep. As if it hadn't been bad enough that the girl had fallen head over heels for the resident Scrooge, she was apparently a complete freak magnet. He couldn't do much about Gold - the old bastard was nothing if not possessive. He had even changed his own work schedule to be able to give Ella rides to work in the morning, so his junk heap of a store was now open bright and early, just in case someone felt an overwhelming urge to buy a grandfather clock first thing in the morning. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the two were now living together. Even Leroy, who stayed the hell away from town as much as he could, unless he was self-medicating, and was usually on the boat by dawn, and at the bar by dusk, had learned about the new arrangement not 24 hours after its implementation. Ruby had spilled the beans as soon as she saw him.

Now, he turned on his stool to get a better vantage point on the brooding one-man freak show. The guy was sipping red wine, of all things, which was a bit too glorious a label for the fermented beet juice that the diner's menu identified as the "house red". He'd bet good money, if he had any to bet, that it was beet juice, and not grapes, because no matter how much one waxed poetic about the "earthy tones" of a French vintage, he was pretty sure it wasn't meant to taste like the stuff you walk on. Which the house red did, he knew from experience.

The freak did not seem to notice, though. Probably thought it added to the authenticity of the general Lord Byron chic. Well, whatever floated his boat. Leroy caught the man staring at him, the ragged scar on his neck glistening a necrotic shade of purple in the fluorescent lights. He raised his beer mug in the guy's general direction, just to be on the safe side, and refocused his gaze on the counter.

Not a minute passed when he heard the creek of vinyl from the booth, and, judging by Ruby's sudden attention to something over his shoulder, he deduced that that Captain Trench had taken his silent cheer as an invitation. Oh, goody.

Sure enough, Trench was looming to Leroy's left.

" - Is this seat occupied?"

" - Does it look occupied, pal?"

That gave the guy pause, and Leroy chuckled into his beard.

" - I suppose it doesn't, but one never knows."

" - Well, the invisible man went home already, so it's your lucky day."

" - I very much doubt that" said the freak, and perched beside Leroy on the bar stool. They sat quietly for a few moments.

" - How do you like Granny's finest?" Leroy asked, mostly just to say something. The brooding bastard was unnerving.

" - I've had better." He shrugged, the fabric of his coat rustling quietly. "I have also had worse."

Leroy nodded slowly.

" - So, I take it you didn't come here for the booze."

" - I didn't."

Words-R-Us didn't elaborate, and the silence felt oppressive.

" - Well, must be for the company then" Leroy grumbled, with a dismissive nod towards the seating area. Creepfest stayed silent and sipped his swill, the same shade of unhealthy purple as his scar. Leroy wondered how he'd come about that ugly piece of skin decoration. By the looks of it, he was surprised Creepfest was even alive.

He heaved a sigh. He was tired of playing games, and, besides, he couldn't give a rat's ass whether Captain Trench liked him by the end of the evening, or ran away screaming. Hell, maybe he'd challenge him to a duel, that'd sure break the monotony, and give the town some fat to chew on. But Leroy was a man of clear allegiances, and right now this was an opportunity to watch out for someone he cared about. He'd take it.

" - Listen, pal. I don't know what's going on in that thing you call a head, but I'd like to point your attention to the fact that she ain't up for grabs."

The man turned his head slowly, and Leroy thought he heard a squeaking sound.

" - I have no interest in grabbing this young woman" the man retorted with finality, casting an oblique glance at Ruby, who was busy wiping the counter at the other end of the make-shift bar. Leroy looked at him incredulously, and shook his head.

Creepy _and_ literal. Well, then.

" - I ain't talking about the redhead, buddy. Don't play dumb. I am here almost every night, and trust me, I know my crowd."

" - I don't doubt it."

There was something about the hoity-toity politeness that made Leroy want to smack Lord Byron atop the skull with his beer mug, just to see if it'd maybe loosen up the stick that was rammed up the guy's other end.

" - You can be a smart ass all you want, but when the loan shark runs you over with his car, don't come hobbling to me, whining all the way about how I didn't warn you. Because you know what I'll say? Right you are! I'll say 'I told you so.'"

He looked askance at the Trench, and thought he saw the ghost of a smile on the man's face, but it was gone before he could be sure.

" - Are you warning me for my sake, or are you concerned for your friend?"

" - Oh, don't get me wrong. I couldn't give two shits about you. So don't start telling me how you're really a nice guy underneath all that brocade. You could be the second coming of Barney the Purple Dino, for all I care. All I know is that my _friend_ doesn't need any more scumbags doing circles around her, if you catch my drift."

" - What makes you think I am circling your friend?"

" – What makes me look like I was born yesterday? Is it my baby soft skin?" He rubbed a palm against his stubble. "Or the curly blond locks?"

Again, there was that trace of a smile, but Trench washed it down promptly with a gulp of Chateaux LesBeets.

" - You think I mean her harm. Nothing could be furthest from the truth." He pivoted towards Leroy, making eye contact for the first time. Leroy didn't care one bit for the weird glint in the guy's baby blues. "She will need my help very soon."

" - Listen, pal, I don't know what sort of crap you're on, or whether Granny's swill has finally gone toxic, but make no mistake here. She has friends to care for her, and you ain't among them, as far as I'm concerned."

The man shrugged, seemingly indifferent.

" - You know nothing. The Joker won't be able protect her, and neither will you."

Leroy blinked and wondered if maybe the beer was playing tricks on his hearing.

" - The who?"

" - You call him Mr Gold. Fitting, I suppose."

" - What in hell's name are you going on about?" Great, the guy wasn't just weird. He was actually Christmas pudding material.

" - Her lover. The one you call Gold. He won't be able to protect her."

" - Wh- Wait. Protect her from what?" He looked around, realizing that they were speaking rather loudly, and the diner wasn't exactly full of sound and fury. He leaned closer to Trench, lowering his voice, and catching a whiff of the man's cologne. "Are you saying she's in danger? What do you know?"

Trench didn't look at him, focusing instead on the meager selection of liquor lining the wall behind the counter. That Granny even had a liquor license was nothing short of miraculous.

" – Danger…" he trailed, speculatively, as if weighing the word. "We are always undone by those closest to us, wouldn't you say? Those who are in our blind spot."

" – Stop jerking me around, pal. If Ella's in trouble and you know something, you better spill, or help me God, I will…"

The creep made a gesture with his hand to stop Leroy's nascent tirade, and folded his long fingers together in a triangle against his lips.

" – I am conflicted" he confessed suddenly, leaning conspiratorially towards Leroy, his crazy eyes shifting rapidly like they couldn't settle on a single thing for too long. Then his face cleared up, whatever gears were turning between his ears locking into position, and the man actually smiled. It was a sight Leroy could have done without.

" – Will you relay a message for me?"

Leroy bristled.

" – Hell, no. Find another matchmaker."

The creep looked peeved, but got ahold of himself.

" – It isn't for me, but for her." He stared down into his glass, as if the swill would cough up an insight. "Please" he added finally.

Leroy grumbled, but decided that he could at least hear out what Looney Tunes had to contribute.

" – Alright, spill."

" – Tell her… tell her to trust her heart, no matter… how events unfold. Tell her she must believe in the truth she knows, even if she doesn't have the language to say it, or the reason to think it. Tell her that… it's all smoke and mirrors."

Leroy stared at Trench, his eyebrows drawn in alarm, and wondered if the guy should consider laying off the swill before someone called the food safety inspection and shut down Granny's for good.

" – Uh... Listen, why don't you tell her that yourself. The kitchen closes in fifteen."

Trench downed the rest of his drink, and stood up. Apparently, he was in the business of being creepy at a distance, and not confronting the object of his creepiness directly. Well, small favors and all that. That left Leroy with the nonsensical message to deliver, and a half-finished pint of Lager to polish off.

The creep threw some money on the counter and pivoted on his heels in the direction of the exit.

" – Hey, pal, wait up! You never answered the question. She in danger, or not?"

Trench glanced over his shoulder, and shrugged.

" – Love always comes with a dose of danger, otherwise it would not be love" he volunteered with enough gravitas to sink the Titanic. As if that should have made perfect sense to anyone with half a brain.

" – Alright, buddy. Now that you got the tall dark stranger bit out of your system, mind translating for us common mortals?"

The guy didn't dignify Leroy with an answer, and simply marched out of the diner, the little bell above the door ringing in his wake ominously. Leroy turned to Ruby, who looked like she'd been listening in to their interaction for a while. He wondered who else had noticed.

" – What was _that_ about?" the redhead frowned, her gaze trailing after Trench.

" – Dunno." Leroy suddenly felt his mood darken, if that was even possible, and he hurried to finish his beer. If Trench wanted to parade around sounding like the World's Greatest Mysteries, he could do it on his own time and dime. For all he knew, the guy had nothing better to do, and Leroy wasn't about to get recruited into some kind of bullshit ego fest.

" – He's cute, I suppose, but a little… unnerving."

" – Yup." Leroy got up, only half-listening. As far as he was concerned, this day was officially over. Ruby could relay the conversation to Ella, she'd probably do justice to Creepfest a lot better than Leroy would.

He left money on the counter and started for the door, noticing the blood-shot watery quality to Whale's eyes. He turned briefly to check on Ruby, making sure that she'd manage to handle the drunken sod. The redhead nodded at him, mouthing an "I'll be fine." Leroy shrugged, satisfied that between her and Ella they'd likely be able to do enough damage if Whale got loose, and stomped out of the diner.

Before heading home, he thought back at the creep at the bar, and sighed heavily. The trouble with people was that, ultimately, you couldn't save them. And most of the time, the harder you tried, the more you mucked it up.

He'd keep an eye on him, just in case.

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**Some Rumbelle next.**


	21. Chapter 21: Full Circle

**Sorry for the delay, folks! This ended up being a bit longer than I intended, but they sort of ran away from me. As always, thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews and comments. Come on, let's hit the 100 mark! ;) In any case, I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**Where Ella learns to spin**

_**"All this twaddle, the existence of God, atheism, determinism, Liberation, societies, death etc. are pieces of a chess game called language, and they are amusing only if one does not preoccupy oneself with 'winning or losing this game of chess'." - Marcel Duchamp**_

She pushed open the front door, and eased herself into the semi-darkness of the manor, kicking off her sandals as soon as she passed the threshold, as had become her habit since she came to live with him. She padded bare-foot in the direction of the kitchen, shrugging out of her rain coat, and hanging the ugly washed-out thing on the back of a chair near the entrance. It was odd how she absolutely relished the short five second walk through the dark hallway, from the front door to the kitchen. No matter how long and tiresome work had been, how much her skin tingled and itched with the humidity and heat, and the abrasive stares of the occasionally unfriendly clients, that brief walk in the dark washed away her exhaustion and peeled the layers of sadness and anxiety that collected on the surfaces of her being like stagnant puddles of dark, brackish water. When she emerged into the soft yellow glow of the kitchen ceiling lamp, she felt renewed, physically lighter, as if along with her coat and shoes she discarded the weight of the world that had sedimented over her shoulders. She would inhale deeply, letting the smells of the old house coil into her nostrils, equal measures dust, wood polish, tea leaves, juniper, and breathe out with bone-melting relief, her lips curling involuntarily into a small content smile.

That evening, she'd had the night shift again. In the last several days, she realized her host had adjusted his schedule around hers, opening the store earlier than was his habit so he could drive her to work, provided she had the graveyard shift. He would drive her back to the house when she worked mornings. He had insisted that he would pick her up in the evenings as well, but she refused. Her night shifts were rare, and she usually enjoyed the quiet evening walk, hitching a ride with Leroy who dropped her off at the edge of the neighborhood, and she covered the remaining distance to the house on foot. This was her time, when she could be with herself in peace, and she was unwilling to give it up.

She and her host didn't talk much during their drives, or whenever their paths crossed in town. It was odd, in a sense, the way they maintained a certain formality around each other whenever they were in public. To Ella, it felt like a private game, an ever evolving inside joke between them that never seemed to reach its punch line, but became more and more elaborate with each new increment. They had even taken to referring to each other by their last names whenever anyone else was in earshot radius. She still didn't know his first name, of course, but the fact no longer struck her as odd or troublesome. To each other, they were mostly second person pronouns, even though, on occasion, her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine. But with every subsequent time he addressed her as "Ms French," the moniker seemed to acquire another layer of unspoken innuendo, laden with meaning that only the two of them were privy to, until it was practically creaking under the strain of what was left unspoken.

Sometimes he would come into the diner, sit at the counter, order his usual coffee, even though in private he only drank tea, and ask for something that wasn't on the menu. It was an odd little waltz they danced, with Ruby the reluctant go-between. It began rather innocently, the waitress poking her head through the kitchen door, her expression a mix of equal parts amusement and annoyance, and pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

" - We have a client complaining about your cooking again."

The first time this happened, Ella had actually felt her stomach sink in panic, and rushed out to the seating area to placate the irate customer. Only to find Gold perched at the counter, his expression seemingly impassive, although she had memorized his face so well by then that the slightly more pronounced starbursts of laugh wrinkles around his eyes cued her in. She stifled a smile, and gave him a stern look.

" - Ms French, I must voice my categorical protest. The rhubarb pie from last week disappeared from the diner's menu. What, pray tell, is the significance of this?"

" - Mr Gold, the significance of the rhubarb pie's uncanny disappearance should certainly be taken up with the local produce store, and possibly with the growers of the aforementioned rhubarb. Not with me."

He sighed theatrically, and looked dejectedly from his coffee to her, and back to his coffee.

" - What is a man to eat?"

" - I recommend the key lime pie, since you seem to be looking for something sour."

He chuckled quietly, rotating his mug of coffee in the palms of his hand, as if to warm them.

" - Not sour, necessarily, although I do try to avoid sticky sweet desserts. I hear they are quite fattening." Their eyes locked, and it was all Ella could do not to burst out laughing. The man had a major sweet tooth, could, she suspected, consume his weight in chocolate. She had discovered his stash, worthy of an ogre, one evening when she was putting away clean dishes into the cupboards. She had teased him mercilessly until he relented and offered to share.

" - Mr Gold, may I recommend the fruit parfait then, for the leaner option?"

He gave her an inscrutable look, his lips quirking ever so slightly at the edges.

" - Ms French, while I certainly appreciate your concern with the threat that the key lime pie poses to my figure, I do believe one has to live dangerously." His gaze was suggestive enough to send her rushing to the kitchen with a rather weak "I'll see what I can do." Ruby, the traitor, was snickering in her wake. The man had apparently made it his mission in life to get her flustered. That he still managed to do so, despite the repeated exposure, never failed to puzzle her.

The next time, however, despite her solemn resolutions to anticipate his quips, she remained woefully unprepared. Ruby came into the diner's kitchen, carrying a plate.

" - Someone sent this back" she said, dropping it on the counter.

Ella looked at her wide-eyed.

" - What was wrong with it?"

" - See for yourself." The redhead turned away and made a rather prompt exit. Ella inspected the plate apprehensively, expecting a fly or a cockroach conspicuously lying in the middle of the dish, its little legs curled in rigor mortis. Then her hands tightened into fists, a gesture of helpless outrage, and she actually stomped her foot, briefly relieved that no one was around to witness her display of striking maturity and poised countenance. Then she was laughing and shaking her head. The plate was empty, safe for an elaborate drawing, executed in ketchup. It was, unmistakably, a rose.

In perfect honesty, she didn't quite know what to do with Gold's strange, and normally so carefully concealed sense of humor. It was as if there was an entirely different person living underneath the immaculately cold exterior, one that came only fully awake in her presence. She thought back at her own monster, behind the fence, no longer so alien, as if that other creature, locked outside of the carefully built walls, had become domesticated in the process. Or perhaps it was domesticating her.

She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. Her host stood facing the counter, his back to her, and was busy with something she couldn't see. With a mischievous little smile, she crept quietly behind him, trying not to make any noise, and barely breathing lest he noticed her, but he was busy with his task, only the soft clinking of metal against glass disturbing the quietness of the room. When she was a few inches away, she snaked her arms around him, and covered his eyes with her palms.

" - Guess who?" she said, even though the question was absurd. His shoulders went rigid for a few seconds, but then seemed to relax.

" - How many guesses do I have?"

" - How many different people are you expecting to creep up on you in your own kitchen?"

" - Creeping up on me in my own kitchen might prove a dangerous pass-time, love."

She snickered at that, and let go, so he turned to face her, leaning back against the counter.

" - You said so yourself, you have to live dangerously."

He was smiling, and she looked around him to see what had so completely captured his attention that he hadn't heard her come in. She saw two tall glasses of greenish liquid, steamed over with condensation.

" - What are you making?"

He shrugged, handing her one of the glasses.

" - A witch's brew."

She looked at the glass suspiciously.

" - Will this turn me into a frog?"

He affected a speculative expression.

" - One probably won't."

She took it from his hand, and smelled it.

" - Something minty" she concluded.

" - I believe the technical term is "Mojito". Which is really a fancy way of saying mint, rum, sugar and lime juice."

She looked up at him, puzzled.

" - I don't recall seeing you drink. Alcohol I mean." She scrutinized the glass in bewilderment like it was about to sprout legs and start hopping around. "What's the occasion?"

" - Must there be one, even for an 'occasional' drink?"

She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

" - Yes, I believe there should be one. Otherwise, I might think you are trying to get me drunk."

His eyes widened slightly, and she beamed at him, savoring the rather rare occasion when she managed to make him momentarily lose his footing.

" - Very well. Since we are in the business of keeping proper appearances, there is, in fact, an occasion. It isn't an entirely happy one, however."

" - Oh?" Ella's curiosity was piqued, but she saw the sadness flicker in his eyes, before it was replaced with the teasing smirk again, now tinged with something bitter-sweet. She felt his mood ripple through her own emotions, in perfect resonance, as if his feelings reverberated through her consciousness like so many echoes. She felt a fierce impulse to try to neutralize that sorrow, dilute it in her being, as if her soul could serve as solvent for his sadness. She held the glass firmly.

" - What are we drinking to, then?"

He held up his own glass, slightly lost in contemplation. Ella thought he was trying to formulate a toast.

" - To the mistakes that make us into what we are."

She frowned, reflecting on the sentence. She felt torn, with one side of her wanting to prod and dig until she got to the heart of the story, until she got every last little detail that put his cryptic utterance into context. Her other side held her back, volunteering an unexpected nugget of wisdom. It distrusted language because stories were never really what happened, just pretty shells that ended up molding their content into something entirely removed from the original experience.

" - Mistakes." She tried the word for taste. It left her tongue coated with something acrid, but she pushed on. "Maybe, they are literally, missed takes? Like a photograph that's a little out of focus, but ends up showing something that the photographer didn't originally notice was in the picture in the first place?"

He appeared to consider her question, twirling the glass and making the ice clink softly against the walls.

" - More like mist aches, really. Too foggy to be quite clearly discernible, but sipping into your bones nonetheless until all you know is the gnawing cold." His voice sounded far away, coming from some deep well, and she shivered at the imagery. But she was an optimist by nature, and shut the door in melancholy's face with a firm "Rubbish." He looked at her, startled.

" - You said so yourself. They make us into what we are. Which means that without them, we wouldn't be here." She raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."

His expression softened, and he stared at her for a few seconds with something very close to wonder, then shook off the reverie and clinked his glass against hers.

" - To where we are, then?" she asked, not wanting to drink to his sadness, as if the toast was an incantation, and not merely a formality that gave people license to go ahead and down the contents of their glass, already. He nodded solemnly, seemingly catching the drift of her thoughts.

She took a sip, the liquid sweet and very cold. It tasted simultaneously fresh and tangy, the mint complementing the lime juice perfectly. She couldn't really taste the alcohol.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both slightly unsure of what to do with the break in the routine. Their evenings typically consisted of sitting in the library, until they went their separate ways into their respective rooms. She hadn't come knocking on his door since that night when she couldn't sleep, and neither of them mentioned it. The incident had acquired a pink elephant in the room quality, but it mostly kept to itself and didn't destroy the furniture, so they both pretended it wasn't there, in silent consensus.

Ella wondered whether the laws of conservation of things in the universe applied to people's propensity to tell tales. She wasn't blind. People were gossiping about them left and right. Even Ruby and Leroy gave her meaningful looks whenever Gold came to the diner. The less was happening between them, the more enthusiastically people whispered and hissed. It was almost frustrating. She wasn't naive, and was perfectly well aware of what the insinuations were hinting at. People's idea of intimacy, she thought, was as narrow as their minds.

She took another sip, a pleasant warmth spreading in her stomach, and radiating into her limbs. She looked at her companion, who seemed lost in thought again.

" - What was the best unexpected fallout from a mistake you've made?" she asked, putting just enough mischief into her voice to make him know that any moping would not be tolerated.

His amber eyes focused on her, and she observed two conflicting emotions battle in them for dominance, until the lighter one won out.

" - Frankly, this..." he waved his hands in an ambiguous gesture "... might take the cake."

She looked around.

" - You got the house by mistake?"

He seemed to reflect on that.

" - In a way, I suppose. But it isn't what I meant."

She crossed her arms over her chest, frowning in mock disapproval.

" - Taking me in was a mistake?" She made a gesture at him with her glass, and took another sip. "Isn't rescuing damsels in distress generally a good way to gain karmic brownie points?"

He gave her a slight smirk.

" - It depends on what you plan to do with the damsel in question."

Perhaps it was the drink, but she didn't find herself flustered, even though her heart rate was picking up speed.

" - Oh? You have a plan?"

He raised the glass to his lips, his eyes still trained on her as he took several sips.

" - I would surely make a rather deplorable monster otherwise."

She shook her head, wondering suddenly at the way he always returned to the topic of monsters. It was odd, in a way, more than simply the extension of their inside joke. As if he kept trying to tell her something that she refused to comprehend.

" - I stand firm in my assessment. You aren't a monster."

" - How would you know?"

The sadness was threatening to overtake his eyes again, and she scrambled to recover the levity of their usual banter. She didn't quite understand why she felt it was so important to keep him from tumbling down his private slope of depression, but something spurred her on to anchor him in a state of moderate good cheer.

" - I don't know monsters who spin."

He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to explain.

" - You have a spinning wheel in your bedroom."

He shrugged.

" - It's just decoration, dearie."

She shook her head firmly, dismissing both his claim and his term of endearment. He used it whenever he felt defensive, and she was in no mood for scaling walls and barriers when she could go around them.

" - Teach me."

Gold looked at her with such unabashed surprise that Ella laughed. She took another sip, wondering how the glass had become three quarters empty, and fished for a mint leaf to chew. It was slightly acidic, marinated in the lime juice, and she delighted in its unexpected flavor.

" - Please?"

It was odd, the sudden boldness she felt, somehow tethered to the feeling of warmth that was spreading through her body. She let the glass, now mostly mint and lime rinds, rest on the counter. Gold was staring at her with something bordering on alarm. She was undeterred.

" - It seems..." she searched for the right word. "Peaceful?"

He gave her a long inscrutable look, then apparently came to a decision.

" - On one condition."

She looked up expectantly, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

" - You mustn't tell anyone."

Ella shrugged, feeling oddly unsurprised by the request.

" - My lips are sealed."

His eyes lingered on the aforementioned part of her face, but he caught himself, and set his now almost empty glass on the counter next to hers.

" - After you, love." He gestured towards the hallway. Ella smiled, and took the lead.

She stopped before the door to his bedroom and waited for him to invite her in. He pushed the door open and urged her on with a little flourish. The lights flickered on, and she looked around curiously, taking in her surroundings. The room was tasteful without being opulent, simple without being sparse or strict. The straw bed was covered with a dark woolen blanket, in hues of ocher and brown. Apart from the bed and a night table, the room contained only two other pieces of furniture: a walnut dresser topped with a single exquisitely crafted jade vase, in a hue of milky green, and, on the other side of the room, the spinning wheel, covered with a sheet. Now that she saw the contraption again, she stopped dead in her tracks, frowning. How had she managed to identify the object underneath the sheet? She hadn't a single moment of doubt about what it was, yet, if she thought about it rationally, she had no way of knowing. She simply knew he spun, as surely as she knew what color his eyes were, or that he didn't add milk or sugar to his tea.

The pain was sudden, like a bolt of lightning piercing her brain, and it bounced around in zigzags through the interior of her skull. Ella felt the world tilt slightly, only dimly aware of two arms circling her waist and somehow stopping the surrounding from careening completely off kilter, and she brought her hand up to her nose, expecting it to come away painted red, much like that time at his shop. The headache was unmistakably similar. To her relief, there was no blood, but her head was still pulsing with pain. She turned to face him, only to meet his deeply concerned expression, his eyes searching her own as if he could peer through them into her head and assess what was happening there.

" – What's wrong with me?" she asked the room, gripping his arms for additional stability. Something was happening to her vision, too, because the color of his skin was all wrong, as were his eyes. So much for certainty, she thought absurdly, her stomach twisting in knots with the onslaught of vertigo. He looked briefly at the wheel, then gathered her to him, his palms coming to rest on each side of her face. She leaned her forehead against his chest, inhaling his scent, which seemed to swirl around her like tendrils of smoke, and closed her eyes. She heard him whisper into her hair, something nonsensical about not fighting it, and that the world didn't have to make sense. He was urging her to let go, not to try to arrange the pieces of the puzzle in order. The words were odd, but she struggled through the painful fog to pay attention, anchoring herself as much to their strange meaning as to the soft rasp of his voice. He was right. It wasn't her job to make sense of the world. Someone else could take on the thankless task. The thing lacerating her mind seemed to recede and coil back on itself, leaving a dull throb in its wake, but she no longer felt like someone had tried to put her head in a microwave oven.

After a minute or two, she carefully lifted her head, and looked up at him, her eyes suddenly stinging with unshed tears.

" – I really _am_ sick, aren't I?" It was the obvious explanation. People were locked away for a reason, and believing that she had been the exception that confirmed the rule was not only arrogant, it was unforgivably naïve.

" – It's just a migraine, love." His fingers were gently massaging the tense muscles at the base of her neck, and she relaxed, letting her arms encircle his waist. She leaned into him, their closeness no longer acutely, painfully unnerving. He had become familiar, but with familiarity came a new kind feeling, almost proprietary, as if, over the last several weeks, they had developed a claim on each other that could no longer be challenged or undermined.

" – I suspect you are simply allergic to certain kinds of wood polish. We should perhaps relocate, before it comes back."

Ella shook her head firmly. It wasn't the wood polish, and they both knew it. She had picked up enough psychological jargon while trying to educate herself about her supposed condition to be able to identify that the reaction, although physically manifested, was ultimately in her head. It had something to do with very deeply buried emotions, ones that she couldn't even begin to remember, because in the cluttered attic that was her mind not only did things lack a fixed place, but in fact proceeded to rearrange themselves when no one was looking.

Somehow, she wasn't supposed to know that he spun, of that she was sure. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but she was tired of running from herself, and was ready to turn around and give chase instead. So she disengaged from him, although she was reluctant to completely break physical contact, so she held his hands in her palms, and pulled him towards the wheel.

" – I don't think you should…" he begun, but as long as she could walk the tightrope between sanity and madness, the world could make sense and not make sense at once, and her head no longer threatened to cleave in half. Emboldened by the realization that her new balancing act gave her an unprecedented degree of freedom, she tugged him on. He was resisting, so she turned to him, a small smile curving her lips.

" – Alright, I will make you a deal."

The words worked like a siren call, because he was suddenly all sinuous attention, his stance shifting slightly from rigid stubbornness to something feline and predatory.

" – Oh?"

" – We get to use one piece of furniture in this room this evening. You can pick which one."

His eyes widened in utter shock, and Ella watched them dart around, conspicuously skipping over the bed as if it had suddenly gone invisible. From the amount of attention he was trying to direct anywhere but at the straw mattress, she was surprised that the poor thing didn't suddenly burst into flames, or start yodeling. Of course, he noticed that she noticed, and chuckled.

" – Come to think of it, I really ought to reorganize my suits. I've always thought it would be a great help if they were arranged by color." She followed his gaze to a side door, and decided it most likely lead to a walk-in closet, or, better yet, a wormhole into another universe capable of containing all his garb.

She dug her heels in.

" – Doesn't count. It's not technically _in_ the room, it's in the _wall_."

He gave her a sharp look, but his eyes were warm underneath the mock displeasure.

" – You should have been a lawyer, not me" he grumbled under his breath, but relented, obviously not overly interested in winning that particular contest.

They both looked at the dresser.

" – Should we rearrange your unmentionables?" she asked, still feeling like she had the upper hand, and giddy with her unprecedented string of luck. He snorted, and, putting his hand at the small of her back, gently guided her towards the wheel.

" – If the headache restarts, you must tell me."

She nodded.

Ella helped him drag the heavy apparatus away from the wall, and they arranged a narrow bench perpendicular to the wheel. He walked over to the dresser, and rummaged through the middle drawer, coming up with a large plastic bag of something soft, fluffy, and beige. Ella gaped at him in wonder. Was there anything her host _didn't_ have stashed away somewhere.

" - It is a lot easier to explain with an example in front of you. Come."

She watched him unbutton his cuffs, and roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms were unexpectedly tanned, as if the sun had left a permanent trace on them that neither the northern climate nor the long-sleeved suits had managed to fully banish. She wondered what sort of life he had before his existence in Storybrooke. His hands and forearms did not belong to a bookworm or a bureaucrat, they were too wiry, the skin habituated to sun rays, and the tips of his fingers still callused from some kind of manual labor.

He maneuvered her to sit alongside the contraption, and she felt him arrange himself behind her, straddling the bench.

" - I won't bore you with the process of getting the wool combed. This strand is already pre-drafted, and is ready to be spun."

The plastic bag rustled, and a thick snake of airy beige fibers materialized on her lap, followed by a long cotton string.

" - Here, before we do this, let's start by spinning the wheel without string, to get a feeling for the speed."

She felt his body draw closer to hers, his thighs bracketing her own, and his foot pushed gently against her heel, urging her to move it to the peddle she only now noticed underneath the device.

" - Your foot movement is what powers the wheel. Just follow me."

He positioned his own foot next to hers, and the feeling of the coarse cool leather of his shoe against her bare foot sent unexpected shivers down her spine. She frowned, forcing herself to pay attention, but he was suddenly uncomfortably close, in a way that made her toes tingle and her breath hitch in her throat.

" - Go ahead, just press the pedal." She felt a moment of satisfaction at the way his brogue had suddenly thickened, his voice dropping an octave. He tried to clear his throat with a polite little cough, and she smiled softly to herself. At least, she wasn't alone in her discomfort, for lack of a better descriptor.

She pushed on the pedal, her face lighting up beatifically at the way it propelled the wheel to spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until the spokes blurred in a continuous shimmering flow.

She felt, more than heard, his chuckle rumbling against her back.

" - Perfect. You're a natural, my dear." She felt absurdly proud at the praise, and focused on the rhythm of his foot on the pedal, learning to emulate it so she could anticipate it perfectly.

After a few minutes, when the movement started to feel organic, he slowed down.

" - I believe you're ready for the next step." She watched his long fingers coil the cotton string around the flyer, tightening it into place by making a loop and threading the ends through, then repeating the process.

" - This is going to be your feeder. See, the tension here is what allows the thread to coil on the spool."

His arms came underneath her own, framing her rib cage, and she watched his long fingers fray the end of the woolen snake and spiral the loose filaments around the end of the cotton thread. His chin came to rest on her shoulder, his cheek pressed against the curve of her neck, so he could peer over at what he was doing. He tried to push her hair out of the way, his nose brushing against the delicate skin of her nape, and she giggled, raised her hand, and transferred the offending mane to the other side, where it wouldn't obscure his view or tickle his nostrils. He inched forward a little to get a better range of movement, and Ella remembered that breathing came highly recommended on the list of life-maintaining activities. Her next breath came a little uneven, and she wondered how long she had been holding it.

Meanwhile, he had fastened the wool to the piece of string.

" - Now, give it a spin, not too fast so we can get the wool to catch." He took her hands in his, his fingers pressing on hers to transfer the movement into her digits, simultaneously pushing on the pedal with his foot. The woolen snake swirled and lost its air, spiraling through her palms into a thin, if slightly uneven rope. It was pure magic. She stared at the transmutation in wonder, her heart suddenly beating a frenzied cadence at the uncomplicated beauty.

The movement of the wheel tugged at the coiling fibers until her fingers no longer felt like they belonged to her, but were part of some exotic life form, a symbiotic chimera, spliced between her own body, the body of her companion, and the wooden mechanism.

" - Try to relax, my dear." His lips were pressed against the shell of her ear, and she felt a moment of intense, heart wrenching vertigo. The sensation was certainly interesting, although relaxing wasn't even in the vicinity of how she might describe it.

" - Let go" he urged on, then whispered, so quietly the sound was like an afterthought. "Ella."

Her name snaked around her as surely as the thread coiled unto the spool, and she was suddenly acutely aware of the heat of his skin, the texture of his fingers, the soft rasp of his breath tickling her ear. But there was nowhere to go, locked as she was between the wheel and his body, and she let out a ragged breath, closed her eyes, and leaned into his chest, releasing her mind. She suddenly realized how exhausting it was to hold its pieces in a modicum of coherence, so she let it spin out of her grip and fly away, and she was relieved at its departure, because now she could simply be, inhabiting her own skin comfortably, relishing the way it fit, as if designed specifically for her.

The wool coiled, and the wheel spun, the seconds stretched into minutes, hours, and then centuries, an eternity of nothing but the synchronic movement of their bodies, operating in unison, and the peace that came with the knowledge of completeness.

She sighed deeply, feeling muscles that she didn't know were tense relax, and the sensation was difficult to describe, as if things she held woven in the knots of her body were finally released, and she wanted to cry and laugh, but did neither, simply smiling contentedly at nothing in particular, but everything at once.

The wool ended abruptly, and she was suddenly bereft at the termination of her trance. The wheel spun a little faster before slowing down, and finally came to a halt. They sat motionless for a moment, Ella excruciatingly aware of the closeness of his body behind her. Then his hands began to travel up her ribs, his lips brushing against a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, and she held her breath, not daring to move lest she scared him off. Her body no longer seemed to belong to her, as if it had suddenly developed its own will and sense of purpose. She arched her back, tilting her head to the side to give him more room to maneuver. She heard him inhale sharply, his hands fluttering over her skin as if he didn't quite know where to place them.

" - What am I to do with you?" His whisper was mocking, but no matter how elaborate the screen of habitual humor, all she could hear was the rawness of the emotion it was meant to conceal. She was busy formulating an adequate response when her own private monster hopped over the fence that was now little more than a line in the sand, and took the wheel, shouldering her aside.

" - What would you like to do with me?" it asked, curiously, even though, of course, the monster wasn't born yesterday, and knew the answer.

He chuckled, his hand coiling into her hair, and tugging her head back so that her ear was right against his lips.

" - Too many things, I'm afraid. I wouldn't know where to begin."

Ella's entire body shivered, and she tried to pivot to face him.

" - But a deal is a deal." She tensed. His voice sounded like he was trying to scale Mount Everest without an oxygen mask. It didn't help matters that his hands had returned to their exploration, this time starting from the top, and wandering down. "We said only one piece of furniture for tonight."

" - You...!" She felt herself shoot up like a rocket, all languor gone from her limbs, and found herself looming over him, her fists anchored to her hips in an absurd display of disapproval.

" - You!"

Her brain had apparently decided that forming complex sentences was vastly overrated.

" - You object?"

Oh, but the gall!

" - I..." She tried to collect her thoughts, but they scattered in every direction, bleating happily. The one that stayed belonged to the thing behind the fence, which could certainly be accused of many things, but shyness wasn't one of them. She let it take over again, feeling it wear her body with ease, her stance shifting from outraged protest to something entirely different and unfamiliar. She leaned in, slowly settling herself over the bench again, her feral side happily gloating at the way his eyes fastened on her legs as her dress hitched a little higher to accommodate her straddling the bench.

" - You do realize there is a giant loophole to the deal's main clause, yes?"

He raised his eyebrows.

" - Do tell."

She looked at him triumphantly.

" - You're trying to say that you haven't thought of it?" She shrugged, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "I don't buy it for a second."

He attempted a speculative expression, but Ella felt the touch of his eyes too acutely to be convinced.

" - I suppose the deal mentioned nothing about the other parts of the house." He cocked an eyebrow interrogatively.

She nodded, smiling in return.

" - Nor did it specify what qualified as furniture" she nudged him on. He blinked at her once, and then threw his head back and laughed.

" - And here I was, naively believing I was the one luring you in."

She giggled, and shook her head.

" - Beware of the innocent victim who comes along too easily." She raised her index in admonishment, and tried to form her face into an expression of sage contemplation. He chucked, his hands coming to rest on each side of her waist , and pulled her closer until their knees touched. She let her hands drop to his thighs.

" - This is a terrible idea." He looked at her almost pleadingly. She shrugged, still smiling.

" - Weren't we drinking to mistakes that make us who we are?"

Something ominous rippled across the surface of his amber eyes, and Ella huddled closer, refusing to let the darkness back in.

" - And this would be a mistake, without a doubt." He averted his gaze, letting it fall to the floor. With a sudden rush of panic, Ella scrambled to hold him on the surface before she lost him in the depths of the fog that gnawed at his bones.

" - You can repent tomorrow." She was surprised at the finality of her own tone, all playfulness suddenly snuffed out, as if this final step of their waltz was nothing to laugh about. She stood up, and tugged at his hand.

" - Come."

He looked up at her, his eyes inscrutable.

" - Surely, my bed is more comfortable than the floor of your bedroom." She tried to sound playful, but the words rung out with an odd gravity, and, as if hypnotized, he stood up, moving obediently to her side.

" - I..." He started, but nothing followed, so she simply curled her fingers through his, and tugged him in the direction of the door.

" - Shh..." was all she could say, her heart beating in her throat and making words unpalatable.

They proceeded to the hallway. She walked in a daze, only weakly registering that they had stopped in front of the door to her bedroom.

It took Ella a second to realize that the ringing was not in her ears, but the sound of the doorbell. They looked at each other, too mutually absorbed to quite grasp the significance of the sound. The shrill ring pierced the silence again, somehow irate and insistent, and Ella waited for a cure from her companion. He exhaled slowly, and closed his eyes, his hands encircling her shoulders and pulling her against him.

" - A bit late for a social call. I don't suppose we could just… ignore it?" Ella looked up at him hopefully. For a second she saw him vacillate, toying with the idea, when the bell rang for a third time. This time whoever was trying to get in held the button for an entire five seconds. They started towards the entrance at the same time.

The universe was obviously back to what it did best. She was an optimist by nature, but at this particular moment, nature gave no reason whatsoever to be optimistic. They made their way downstairs side by side, Ella feeling like she was walking under water, and for some odd reason, she knew with total certainty that whoever was at the door would irrevocably change the course of things.

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**Voila! Don't hate me too much for the deus ex machina at the end there.**


	22. Chapter 22: Reasonable Doubt

**Folks, as always, thank you all for your comments, reviews, and endorsements! I am glad you are still enjoying this story. I am sad to say that it is slowly coming to an end - not quite there yet, but we are in the final stretch. So hang tight, keep reading, and do send feedback, it's always greatly appreciated, and keeps me on my toes :) **

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**Chapter 22**

**In which seeing is believing**

_**"Chess first of all teaches you to be objective" - Alexandre Alekhine**_

There were many places Emma Swan would have rather been. In bed, reading the long-abandoned novel she had barely cracked open since she had come to this strange little town in Maine, where everything seemed to operate according to its own set of sick rules that somehow didn't apply to the rest of the world she knew, and had until then taken for granted. At a bar, sipping a drink and listening to an old Townes Van Zandt country tune on the jukebox. Sitting in Mary Margaret's kitchen over a cup of hot chocolate, letting the delicious smell of her favorite drink and her friend's sweet and slightly wistful voice lull her into a temporary feeling of comfort, as the young woman told her stories about the kids' latest mischiefs. Above all, she would rather be spending time with Henry, who despite the weirdness of the town and it's people was the one bright ray of sunshine in her otherwise nonsensical and often unpleasant daily grind. Of all the places she could be, standing in front of Gold's house at 11 o'clock at night, flanked by a nervous and fidgety Archie who kept clearing his throat and shifting from one foot to the other behind her and slowly driving her bonkers was at the absolute bottom of her list of desired activities.

Waiting for someone to come to the door had a weird effect on Emma. It forced her to stop, for the first time in ages, and contemplate the mess she had gotten herself into. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pleasant experience.

She had been so absorbed by the case, so hell-bent on getting some kind of answer, and, let's face it, spurred on by Madam Mayor's blackmail, that she hadn't for a second weighed the consequences of what she was about to do. This wasn't even about professional duty anymore. Regina was dangling Henry like a damn carrot, and there she was, obediently going along for the ride, like a stupid mule. It was blackmail, and it was as unethical as it went, if you thought about it, but then again when did Regina ever act ethically or with any consideration for anyone but herself and her little schemes? What was especially infuriating - hell, scratch that, what made her want to sucker-punch the stuck-up harpy - was the fact that she, Emma, was nothing but a pawn in some bizarre machination between Madam Mayor and Mr Loan Shark. These two had been in a state of Cold War for way before Emma had even come to the scene, and she couldn't help but feel that she was some kind of high-powered brainless missile that the two were trying to use in their attempt to determine who was the king of the hill. Emma Swan, the walking Cuban Missile Crisis.

In a sense, concentrating on solving the case - which had become a "case" in her head when she realized that the coroner's photos of Gus Tonner's body showed traces of assault - had made her forget about all her other troubles. It had seemed that if only she could get to the bottom of it all, her other problems would also magically follow suit, that everything would detangle and fall into a neatly organized pattern, and this place would finally make sense. She was starting to wonder if all it would do is permanently upset the power balance in Storybrooke, and once the proverbial apple cart toppled over, speaking of Madam Mayor and her favorite fruit, she feared that someone would end up buried under the produce. Probably her, which she sort of could live with, but her pessimistic streak kept telling her that those who end up hurt are always the innocent bystanders.

She should have grabbed Henry and gotten the hell out of dodge, alleged curse or authorities be damned. Instead, she had tried to do what was best, and it turned out... Well, as usual. Now, here she was, standing in front of the big bad wolf's lair, and about to snatch away his favorite chew toy. This wasn't going to be pretty. She had hoped that the evidence would lead her to Gold. She didn't like the guy one bit, partly because he made her vaguely uncomfortable, like all things she didn't quite understand. It was a stupid trait, she knew that, and probably was a weakness, a fundamental chink in her armor, but she had survived until then because she trusted her instincts, and her instincts told her that the guy was as bad news as one could get. Powerful bad news by local standards, but bad news nonetheless. Well, wrong again, what do you know. The evidence, if you could call it that in a case that had holes the size of the Grand Canyon, and had gone colder and staler than the coffee she had mistakenly tried to drink earlier that evening at the office - pointed in an entirely different direction.

After her talk with Archie the other night, she paid Moe French a visit. The man had largely recovered from Gold's outburst of violence, and was at home when she rang the doorbell. He wasn't much help in terms of remembering what had happened to his daughter five years ago, though. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had spewed off some angry but relatively coherent diatribe that did shed light on the events, but there was something really off about him when Emma tried to interrogate him further. It was as if, as soon as she demanded details that would expand on his original story, he suddenly developed memory problems. It took him a long time to answer her questions, as if he was dragging the memories from under a bunch of rubbish that had accumulated on top of them. Then the answers were a bit off too, overly emotional, yet oddly devoid of meaningful content. He couldn't remember the details, and kept returning to his story, as if he had memorized a part in a play and was now rattling off his lines, but as soon as the conversation demanded something beyond them, he got stuck. It made no sense, unless the guy had sustained some kind of brain damage, or... Well, frankly, as if he had been told what to say. Or hypnotized into it, even though she didn't believe in all that psychobabble mumbo jumbo. It didn't help that Archie seemed to think that Moe French was perfectly normal.

She would have turned away and walked out, had Moe French not offered to show her Ella's room. He had kept it intact all those years, as if the girl had never left. Creepy, granted, but she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity. So she walked up to the second floor, and pushed open the door to a small, cozy, extremely girly space, replete with stuffed toys and books for young adult. A typical room for a girl on the cusp of exiting adolescence, and becoming a grown woman, she supposed, though she, herself, never had one of those. She snooped around. A photograph had attracted her attention. It was of a young woman in a cheer-leading uniform, standing with her back to the camera and twirling a baton over her head. The girl's face was hidden, except for the contour of a cheekbone, but the long curly chestnut hair and slight built seemed to indicate that this was a younger Ella French. She picked up the photograph, staring at it intently. Moe French, who had trailed after her, obligingly informed her that his daughter's uniform was still in the closet. She went through the stuff, and at the bottom of the wardrobe, tucked away behind old blankets and more stuffed toys, she found what she was looking for. The baton was slightly heavier than she had expected, a metal rod capped at each end with a heavier tip. With enough momentum, it would definitely fit the bill for explaining the traces on Gus Tonner's limbs. Except the chances of it being the weapon used against the boy was rather slim, as to the likelihood of it having any traces of evidence left on it... was asymptotically minuscule.

Emma fished out a pair of rubber gloves and an evidence bag from her backpack, and informed Moe French that she would like to examine the baton at the station. The man shrugged and nodded, oddly indifferent, as if he felt absolutely no attachment to this room that so meticulously preserved his daughter's past. She bagged the photograph as well, and left.

She sent off the stuff to the lab that day and the next morning got a call from one of the workers there, who sounded terrified out of his wits and kept ranting about how they had gotten a visit from the DA who, for no reason the poor guy could discern, decided to put the fire under their asses for getting everything processed quickly. Emma thought it was an odd coincidence, but was preoccupied with the results, and filed the information about the DA away for later consideration. She had been so pursuaded that they would find nothing, that she had to ask the poor guy three times to cconfirm the results. By the end, the tech guy was speaking very slowly, as if Emma was slightly addled or mildly hard of hearing.

They found Ella's fingerprints on the baton - that was no surprise, of course. What was a surprise is that they also found DNA evidence that was a match for Gus Tonner. If only that was all. She came back after lunch to find an arrest warrant on her desk for Ella French. She had not requested it.

Emma wasn't dumb. Someone obviously wanted to tie Ms French to Gus Tonner's death as tangibly as was possible, and she thought she knew who that someone was. The usual suspect, and all that. What she didn't know was why. And the only way to find out was to go along with the apparently pre-determined steps, and see what would shake out in the wash.

And so, here she was, fully intent on bringing Ms French in for questioning, except that no one was bothering to open the door.

" - Come on, Al Capone, I don't have all night!" she mumbled, and pressed the doorbell for a good thirty seconds. Someone was in the house, she was sure of that.

" - Perhaps this can wait until tomo-" Archie piped up behind her unhelpfully, but then the door swung open, and Emma was nose to nose with a glaring and oddly disheveled pawnbroker. He didn't look pleased to see her. He'd be even less pleased to hear her, Emma thought to herself grimly, took a breath of air, and jumped.

" - Mr Gold, may I speak with Ms French?"

" - It is rather late, Ms Swan. Can this not wait until tomorrow?" She dug her heels in.

" - Nope."

The man glared at her some more, his expression icy, and she wondered, not for the first time, how on earth Ms French could tolerate being in the same room as the guy for more than thirty seconds.

" - What is this about, may I ask?"

" - You may not."

She didn't purposefully want to antagonize him, but then his high-handed manner just pissed her off. She had no patience for the devious bastard, and she'd get a lot more out of the girl if the creep wasn't hovering around. Emma craned her neck and spotted the girl, who marched to the door firmly, her eyes fixed on Emma curiously.

" - Ms Swan, did you say you wanted to talk to me?"

" - Ms French, would you please come with me to the police station? We would like to ask you a few questions."

" - Unless you have a serious case against Ms French, I suggest you vacate the premises, sheriff. She is under no obligation to come with you."

Emma squinted at the pawnbroker with hostility. He was obviously not going to let go without a stink.

" - Don't make me do this, Gold."

" - Emma, I don't think..." Archie didn't complete his sentence, but judging by the way he hopped about like he was trying to jump out of his skin, he wasn't happy about the turn of events.

" - Do what, Ms Swan?" Gold's expression dropped a few degrees below freezing. This, somehow, sent her over the edge. She had no patience for this, and if she felt somewhat bad for the girl before, all benevolence was snuffed out by the pawnbroker's cold arrogance. She was fed up with everyone questioning her moves, like she was the one under suspicion. Before she could fully consider what she was doing, she unhooked her handcuffs from her belt and stepped forward.

" - Ms French, you are under arrest for the murder of Gus Tonner. You have the right to remain silent. All you say or do may be held against in you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney." She rattled off the Miranda with more aplomb than she would have expected. This was not her usually line of work, but she had fallen into the law enforcement shoes easily enough. The girl stared at her, stupefied. Gold began an outraged tirade, peppered with little quips about Emma's incompetence, so she fished out the warrant and handed it to him without a word. He must have read it three times before handing it back.

" - This is a set-up, Sheriff Swan. She didn't do anything."

" - That's for the court to decide, Mr Gold."

She put her hand on the girl's shoulder, and veered her towards the car. Gold started after them, but Emma gave him a warning look. He paid her absolutely no attention, his eyes focused on Ms French.

" - This is a misunderstanding, love. I will get you out of there."

Emma noted the ways their eyes locked in silent, cyphered communication, and felt a strange pang of regret. For the first time since she began to follow the elusive threads of this case, she wondered whether she was being duped all along. There was more to the story than lay on the surface, and the fact that this hidden layer was completely inaccessible to her made her irrationally furious. All along she had felt that she was being manipulated into coming to just the right conclusions, finding just the right clues that, miraculously, no one had paid any attention to the first time around. There were too many motives at play to see a clear picture.

But perhaps that exchanged stare was not at all an admission of guilt, or an attempt to coordinate a cover-up, but something much simpler, and much more personal. For some reason, this interpretation felt even more depressing than the previous one. With a physical effort, Emma put the breaks on her train of thoughts, and forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. The girl was looking at her expectantly, her blue eyes wide and strangely inscrutable under the long lashes. She couldn't see Gold's expression either - he stood with his back to the light, and his features remained bathed in darkness. Both him and Ms French were silent and oddly immobile, and even Archie seemed to suddenly quiet down and stand still, for the first time that evening. She couldn't get away from the eerie quiet that settled over them fast enough - it felt like the vertiginous silence in the waiting room of a hospital, during those few seconds when the surgeon walks out slowly, wearing a grim expression, and you know that no matter what you say, there will be no undoing his words. She gritted her teeth, and pressed blindly through the routine of the arrest, putting Ella into the backseat of her cruiser, even though she handled the girl with a lot more gentleness than she would any other perp. She cast a quick glance at Gold, and watched him walk away briskly, obviously intent on following them in his own vehicle. She should have known that he would not let go so easily, and if she knew him at all, he would try to insinuate himself as the girl's lawyer, which was wrong on all sorts of accounts, but she suspected he would find a loophole. He seemed proficient at those.

Archie settled himself next to Emma in the passenger seat, still under the strange quiet spell, and Emma did the only thing she could do. She drove to the station.

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**Volia, that's all for this chapter. Thanks for reading, and I will have an update soon.**


	23. Chapter 23: Smoke and Mirrors

**For those of you who have missed the Hatter, here he is. As always, thank you all for your feedback and endorsements. You all are fantastic. **

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 23**

**In which the Hatter considers a method to his madness**

**"It's a great huge game of chess that's being played—all over the world—if this is the world at all, you know." - Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll**

**"My head won't leave my head alone" - Dave Mathews Band, Rhyme & Reason**

The morning was unusually cool for the season, with heavy rain clouds hanging low over the small coastal town, the lead-colored ocean steadily breathing a chilly breeze down the largely deserted streets.

Like every morning of the last twenty eight years, he stood in front of the looking glass in the meaninglessly tasteful hallway of his exhaustingly beautiful mansion, and readjusted the fit of his long overcoat. It hugged his figure perfectly, a body that remained impervious to age despite his ability to remember who he was, or, at least, who he had been. The long gray fabric was a renvoi to a time and place when people still had honor, and a taste for gallantry. An irony perhaps, since he himself knew nothing of such times and places, his own life having been spent in much rougher climes.

He preferred the weather as it was this morning, with no pretense of sunny idyllic agreeableness. It was more candid than candied, and seemed to fit the town better, the illusion of a placid backwater replaced with the true face of a sink hole.

He left his prison on the hour, because he was nothing if not punctual, now that he was permanently too late, and walked slowly down the winding road, humming quietly to the rhythm of his own steps. This was day three after the Big Event that had become the talk of the town. There weren't many Big Events in the sink hole, and the Bitch of Spades was usually their primary generator. He sometimes reflected that being the center of the small artificial universe she had created must be terribly lonely for her, though she would never admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. After all, the jailor is often as much a prisoner as his wards, but unlike his wards, he doesn't know it. She too was a prisoner of her past, and if he had been a kinder man, he would perhaps pity the lost little girl who was turned into a spiteful harpy. He was not a kind man, and so felt no pity.

And thus, the Big Event had given the town folk a new topic of conversation, in a place where topics of conversation were in short supply. He suspected that it had the added freshness of the curse fabricating a communal past, the hapless residents remembering something that had never happened, their certainty in the events - and, incidentally, in the rightness of their judgement - solidified through the self-congratulatory epiphany of lazy reasoning on a collective scale. He, of course, knew all about that. After all, he had created much of this false past with his own two hands.

Beneath the numbness that came with having lost his head one too many times - or perhaps it was the mercury slowly poisoning his flesh, as this world's explanation would have it - he felt an odd heaviness, as if his heart was large and viscous, and sunk under its own weight down his chest cavity, pushed down steadily with every contraction of his diaphragm, bouncing off the walls of his rib cage and burying deeper into viscera with each inhale. He sighed, trying to dislodge the sickly feeling, but his breath came out ragged and the wind stole it as soon as it passed his lips.

He had played his part in the Big Event, as had many others, a grim ballet choreographed in advance with murderous precision, but little grace. They all filled out their roles perfectly - tiny tin soldiers arranged in formation on the playing board that was this artificial town with its artificial history. His role had been comparatively larger, and it would have saddened him if he could still recognize the feeling. But that would have been akin to arguing over shades of black - too close to his normal state of mind, the heaviness in his chest was merely a darker hue in a realm where all was shadow.

He walked on. The sun was tucked away safely behind the gray vaporous masses, as if it wanted no part in the day's proceedings, which suited his mood. As always, he walked up to the newspaper vendor right across from Granny's diner and picked up the latest copy of the Daily Mirror, rolled up the paper, and made his way to a nearby bench. He settled himself on the moist wood, his coat shielding him from the chill, and looked at the swollen sky with vague wistfulness. Spring should have slowly ceded its way to summer, but judging by the ragged clouds and the frigid wind, the seasons were intent on skipping over the heat and move right into Fall. He looked at the bleak colors of the buildings, and watched the seagulls twirl against a steely sky, diving occasionally towards the garbage dumpsters. He shook his head at the endless ugliness, and turned his attention to the paper.

It too didn't disappoint. As always, the Looking Glass threw back the distorted inversion of what passed for reality in these parts, but the wool of lies was pulled tightly, and, besides, eyes always beheld what they wanted to see.

He sighed heavily, feeling suddenly lost and a little more empty than usual. His task had ended. He was no longer required to spy on the Crystal Girl, nor put together the dark illustrations to her supposed insanity. The Bitch of Spades had caught her - although that was a misnomer, of course, she had never released her, but merely dangled her as bait at the end of her fishing line - and now that she had her prey firmly hooked, was beginning to reel it in. She had covered the cage of her pretty captive with a weave of untruths, making the Crystal Girl think the night was permanent. It had plunged her into silence.

It was the absence of that song, the intricate yet simple melody of the girl's presence, its occasional notes caught here and there as he went about his watcher's tasks, that now made his heart feel like a decaying sea creature sinking slowly into lightless depths. On a rational level, he understood perfectly well that he had little to gain from the Crystal Girl, that he had done what he did because he wanted to preserve the little access he had to his daughter, and that the power games the Bitch of Spades and the Joker relished so much were entirely outside of his realm of interests. But his heart had a mind of its own, and insisted on torturing his absent head.

He skimmed the front page. The Bitch of Spades knew all too well that time and distance were much the same, and that the more days passed, the smaller the Big Event became. So she kept pouring oil into the fire of public outrage, timing her punches with perfect accuracy.

"STORYBROOKE'S MAIN BUSINESSMAN BEHIND HIS MISTRESS'S ASYLUM STAY"

The rag had outdone itself this time. Some unnamed sod had come out and testified that the Joker had given money to keep his lover locked away all those years ago, years that never happened, of course, but if it were printed, then it must be true. The writer drew parallels between the Joker and someone called Mr Rochester, the latter's insane wife locked away in the attic of his mansion. He knew nothing of this Mr Rochester, but he did know of the other comparison. Bluebeard, after all, did have a tendency to get rid of overly inquisitive spouses.

The article hinted and winked, the things it left unsaid cleverly spun to make its readers come to an apparently independent conclusion. The Joker, it suggested, had known about the girl's insanity, had concealed it from others, had hidden the fact that she was dangerous to gratify his own selfish needs. The story made a central figure out of a shadow, a man that did not even exist in this reality, as far as he knew, but the Bitch of Spades had pulled him out of her hat and made him materialize in people's minds, because if one sees a shadow, one looks for the object that casts it, not for the light source. Only to sacrifice her shadow-woven lamb on the altar of her own greed and bitterness.

But the fingers pointed, and the eyes followed.

The words were lies all the way down, but like all language games they generated truth in the absence of facts. And since the Bitch of Spades had calculated most of her moves far in advance, she had even made her own actions look questionable - a woman who helped a business partner avoid a resounding scandal by arranging the incarceration of his criminally suspect mistress into a psychiatric asylum was misguided, but beyond accusation of anything else. Meanwhile, the girl's guilt appeared practically undeniable, all pretenses for the presumption of innocence fancy words made to appease the pangs of a dormant conscience confronted with the workings of a lazy mind. Oh, there would be a trial, to be sure, but he knew all about these kinds of pre-orchestrated public displays of power. He had lost his head at the end of one of them, in another land ruled by another cruel mistress. Monarchs, after all, had little use for actual justice, but they certainly enjoyed their spectacles - as, of course, did the good folk who followed them avidly. Perhaps, this world had a different sense of law and justice, but their sink hole was only nominally part of this other realm. And in this world as is in the other, one needed little more than bread and games.

He would bet his head that the Bitch of Spades was planning to testify at this trial - a seemingly reluctant witness, mortified by the slight dent in her reputation, but determined to see justice be done. But the judges and lawyers would follow their assigned steps, each out of his own motive, but all to the same effect. The man who used to be king, and was now the district attorney had the cold gaze of a lawful murderer. Like most, he probably remembered little of his past life, but memories were never fully erased - surely, the Joker had tricked him into a disadvantageous deal at one time or another. And surely, the former king might have forgotten, but not forgiven.

The man rubbed his long fingers along his jaw, noticing in passing that he had omitted to shave. The memory of his daughter wrinkling her nose at his rough stubble when he would kiss her forehead before leaving for the day twisted his entrails into a painful knot, and he pushed the offending memory aside, out of his absent head and into the heavy air.

He reluctantly felt like tipping his Hat to the Bitch of Spades - she would even give the town folk a happy ending of sorts, with the kind of puny and bitter happiness derived from seeing the misery of others, and rejoicing that Fate had stomped on someone else's house for once. Truth triumphed, the culprit was finally apprehended, and the corruption of the elites exposed. It would have been tragic, if it weren't so farcical.

His Mercurial temperament was little suited for Chess, as he much preferred the elegant chaos of cards, but he knew enough about the ancient game to realize that this was the final phase, the endgame, as it was called. He could anticipate the configuration that had played out, and wondered in passing which piece he had been. He felt an affinity with the anarchic moves of the knight, but his own role had been that of a Gray Eminence, working behind the scenes - a black Bishop, then, perhaps, which was fitting, since he was seemingly condemned to move only in diagonals when everyone else walked straight, and his path was a dark one.

He folded the rag decisively and tossed it into the garbage bin with more force than was strictly required. He felt something stir in the depths of the bottomless well that was his mind. It had lain dormant for so long, his own private sea monster, that he was yet unable to identify the feeling, beyond the way it made his body want to move with unprecedented urgency, sending a current through his fingertips, and making his gait lighter and his movements quicker. He paced by the bench, suddenly full of nervous energy and unable to find a release for it.

He could not let this stand. Sure, he was an odious creature, robbed of rhyme and reason, but he still had something of a heart, not much more than a frozen chunk of ice that would crumble when it thawed, but winter could not last forever, and perhaps it was time.

His attention was caught by the figure hurrying along the street, out of the diner and in an unusual direction as far as this particular personage was concerned. He immediately recognized the former miner-now-fisherman, whose Unhappily Ever After consisted of a longing for an ocean he could never quite sail, and the love for a woman her could never quite have.

The man stopped by the news kiosk and picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror, something he did very rarely. He hesitated, leafing through it, then crumpled it in his fist, his entire figure bristling with barely contained outrage, and started towards the Joker's shop, changed his mind mid-stride, and stomped in the opposite direction, towards what the Hatter decided must be the police station.

Before he could decide whether he should follow the man, the Hatter caught sight of another, smaller figure, running awkwardly down the street after the fisherman, a large rucksack swinging uncomfortably against the boy's thin shoulders. The Little Prince was out of breath, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the exertion, and the Hatter concluded that he must have run all the way from the school. To his surprise, the boy was not, in fact, following the Fisherman, but made a beeline for the Joker's shop. He found the front door locked, but rather than turn around and walk away, he confidently dove into the alley, presumably towards the back entrance. The Hatter expected him to emerge, dejected, in a minute or two, but time crawled on, and the Little Prince did not reappear.

He moved around, trying to catch a glimpse of the back window, and noticed that it was lit from the inside. He wondered what business the Little Prince had with the Joker. His lips curved into a thin smile, an expression his face wore with difficulty for lack of practice.

Spurred on by his earlier unidentifiable restlessness, the Hatter felt compelled to trace the boy's steps. Perhaps, if the Little Prince could sway the Joker to act, not all was lost.

There were two things that the Bitch of Spades, with all her careful scheming, had systematically overlooked. First, everyone had a weakness, a blind spot that made one helpless, a rotten tendon untouched by the divine brew of invincibility. She was a master at identifying that weak spot in others, but was blind to her own. Second, and much more importantly, she did not understand that weakness and strength had always been neighbors who shared a wall. And what defined walls was that they were meant to be torn down.

His strange smile reached up to his eyes, a new confidence sipping into his bones. He too had an ace up his sleeve, and if the deck was stacked, then he could make his own rules. Shrugging off an invisible burden from his shoulders, his opalescent green eyes glinting with a renewed animation, the Mad Hatter stalked quietly towards the Joker's shop.

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**Next chapter will return to Gold and Ella.**


	24. Chapter 24: Only This and Nothing More

**A bit more slow than I expected, but this just means that the story might not end quite as soon as I had planned. Feel free to complain about that, although positive feedback is always welcome too! Thank you all for reading and commenting, you are all so very marvelous. So, without further ado... Hope you missed Gold's perspective, it's not easy to write, but here it is...**

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**Chapter 24**

**In which Gold receives not one, but two unwanted visitors**

**"Why must I lose to this idiot?" – Aaron Nimzowitsch**

The knock at the back door of his shop startled him, and for a few seconds he sat motionless, staring mindlessly at the door. Then he scrambled to his feet, his body protesting vehemently at the sudden movement. It was doing a lot of protesting since she had been torn from him, as if his very vitality was an alchemical reaction to her presence. With her absence, his very life force seemed to be draining. His house had stood practically deserted for three days, because he had been unable, in the most childish and pitiful manner, to face its emptiness. Fortunately, he reflected, he was not in the habit of keeping plants or other living things around - at least, not the kind that could be easily killed by a lack of care.

He had hid in his shop, returning to the house that no longer felt like his own only to shower and change. The reminders of her were scattered around his living space, and his eyes inevitably ran into them, the petty torture of orphaned objects driving him half-mad - her second pair of sandals tucked neatly under the chair in the hallway, the tea cups and mugs arranged upside down in the cupboard to prevent dust from gathering inside them, the door to her bedroom, left half-ajar, through which he could see some of her clothes hanging on the back of a chair. He had eventually closed it shut, but it didn't help much. He moved through the formerly comforting space like a man walking to the gallows, with a clenched jaw and a gaze trained straight ahead.

At first, when the blasted Sheriff Swan had arrested Ella, he had been furious, but not seriously concerned. Certainly, he had been entirely too careless in letting the Queen amuse herself with spreading rumors in her incessant zeal to forge public opinion. He should have acted on his earlier instinct, and found out what her scheming was aimed at, but he had made slow progress, in part because, as he had suspected, no-one knew anything until they were "reminded" of it. Such, of course, was the working of the curse.

He should have known better - he had made it, after all. But all creations tend to acquire an agency beyond that of their maker, and it had been pure arrogance on his part to think otherwise. In practice, the more he asked, the more rumors solidified into facts. The curse was working like a trap of sorts - struggling only served to tighten it. So he had stopped, retreating to ponder a better strategy. To be fair, he had been too distracted by Ella to approach the problem with enough seriousness.

The oversight was in part due to the fact that he didn't much care about what the denizens of the town thought of him, as long as he had sufficient leverage to appeal to their baser instincts, and thus stir them in the general direction that suited his ends. Unlike the Queen, he preferred well-informed laissez-faire to tyrannical control. It was generally more effective, as well as more entertaining. He did not enjoy the domination of another's will - it was far more interesting to see what people might be made to do with their freedom. Besides, perhaps he was no longer quite that man, or that not-quite-man, his actions in this realm of a more defensive nature, the quiet plotting of an old spider.

Because he was used to being the better schemer, but also because he had been supremely confident in the safety net he had woven into his deal with the Queen, he had not felt alarmed until it was far too late. After all, if all else failed, he could always ask the Queen _nicely_. Those had been the rules of engagement up until then, and although he did not abuse the power, it gave him an added sense of certainty. But his magic word didn't work if there was no ear to hear it. By the time he realized that Madam Mayor's plan was, by and by, airtight to conventional juridical intervention, or even plain old manipulation and bribery, he was ready to take off the kid gloves. He would confront her and demand she release Ella, and perhaps throw in a few suggestions of his own, just to remind the rotten woman of her place. To his utter bafflement, however, the Queen simply screened his calls. And avoided him. It was so simple that it almost appealed to that part of him that found amusement in absurdity. By the second day, the amusement had been replaced by a slowly simmering rage. By day three, when he realized that there was precious little he could do to get Ella out of jail, the rage was giving way to a fretful desperation. If Madam Mayor had gone this far, surely she had the next moves planned out as well. This bode poorly for both of them.

He had tried the most obvious avenue at first, volunteering to be Ella's legal representative. Failing that, he could always hire someone else to do the work, and micromanage it from behind the scenes to guarantee a desirable outcome. With this in mind, he phoned the police station, only to be informed that the prosecution believed there was a conflict of interests. He had expected as much, so he offered to provide Ms French with an 'independent' counselor and defray the costs. To this, Sheriff Swan rattled off dryly that Ella had already been assigned a lawyer, and hung up before he could let her know what he thought of that development, or ask who it was.

The knock repeated, this time more insistent, and jolted him out of his thoughts, which were, by this point, chasing their own tail rather unproductively. He walked to the back door, feeling the pent up anxiety morph into helpless fury. He hoped, with the full realization of the idiocy of such self-delusions, that on the other side he would find Ella's face, her rich chestnut hair tousled in an artful mess of curls, her lips curved in that slightly bashful expression that inevitably made his mind go blank, and his body feel unusually light, as if it were filled with helium. He thought for a split second that he could almost distinguish her scent, a light fragrance that was similar to lilly of the valley, but with fresher, citrus undertones. It was pure fancy, of course, but his heart leapt nonetheless, even though his more rational side was perfectly well aware that his visitor was some other, likely unwanted intruder. She would not be returning to him, unscathed and relieved, announcing that the whole sordid mess was a terrible misunderstanding, no matter how much he wished it to be the case. The feeling of deja-vu, of history repeating itself, plagued him, but he pushed it below the surface, to share the company of his other monsters.

He swung the door open, and, finding no-one at eye level, looked down. Sheriff Swan's son stood in front of the back entrance to his store, clutching the straps of his backpack for dear life, his little face contorted in a mask of grim determination. Gold found himself chuckling involuntarily at the boy's solemn expression, but quickly decided that, like most children spoiled rotten with things but starved for attention, the princeling would demand of him that he "solve" the problem, whatever it was. To his surprise, he could not cultivate a dislike for the boy, and found himself slipping easily into the joking register he routinely adopted with him.

" - Young Master Henry! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" He smiled thinly and let the boy walk inside, leaning on his cane a little more heavily than his knee demanded. It was the familiar mask of the town's rich cripple, and he exaggerated the limp as much for the sake of the overall image, as for Madam Mayor's eyes. The more cursed he appeared, the more likely she was to underestimate him. He would almost forget about his bad leg at home, especially in Ella's company. She had the strange effect of a panacea.

The memory of her made his heart constrict painfully, and he cleared his throat, trying to swallow back the offending organ. He forced himself to pay attention to the princeling, noticing the small details with habitual accuracy - the way his backpack was always too full for the amount of books he was required to carry for school, the way he kept his expensive prep school clothing slightly disheveled, in a minuscule act of rebellion. It would be endearing, if it weren't so futile.

" - It's my mom. My real mom, I mean. I think she's making a mistake, and I think it's going to land her in trouble." The boy's brown eyes fixed on his own with a quiet urgency that seemed to fit poorly with his youthful face. The princeling was growing up fast. He wondered if either of the two women that claimed him as their son had noticed.

" - And in what way does this warrant a visit to my store?" The question was automatic, buying his mind time to process the new information. Was there more to Regina's plan that implicated Sheriff Swan as well, beyond her role as a means to an end? Had the Queen been hunting two birds with one stone, as it were?

Henry turned around, and scrutinized the alley furtively before shutting the door behind him.

" - I overheard the Evil... I mean, Regina on the phone."

Gold smiled slightly at the slip, but let it pass. The princeling spoke in hushed tones, but underneath the appearance of an infantile play at cloak and dagger, there was the deadly seriousness of a child clinging desperately to the one adult he recognized as a parent.

" - And what did your adoptive mother have to say that has you so alarmed?"  
He saw the boy flinch at the reminder of kinship, fictive though it was, and almost winced. The small cruelties, misdirected in this case, still came naturally to his lips, but no longer held much appeal, not because he had suddenly developed a conscience, but because the dull ache he carried around his chest seemed to reverberate with the barbs he inflicted on others. He could almost see Ella's disapprovingly narrowed eyes.

The boy, to his credit, swallowed back his hurt feelings and forged on.

" - She said 'And when all the chips fall down, we'll finally be rid of the insufferable incompetent thug that passes for sheriff these days.'" The boy's face was suspiciously still, as if it was a jar full of liquid that he carried carefully, for fear of spilling its contents.

With a sudden jolt, Gold found himself compelled to reassure the child with some insipid lie about how things would, in the end, be alright. An atavistic instinct from a lost version of himself, one that still believed that, at the end of the day, family was what mattered most. It came from a past almost forgotten, where he had been weaker, but perhaps kinder.

But he was no longer that not-quite-man either, so he let the feeling die out and slough off, and simply waited for the princeling to make his demands.

" - We need to help her! I don't know what Regina is planning for Emma, but it's got something to do with Ms French being in jail, and it isn't good, whatever it is!" The boy's brown gaze was intense and urgent, and he was practically bouncing in place. "We have to do something!"

" - We?" Gold asked carefully.

" - Yes! You're a lawyer, you can get Ms French out! You can show that there isn't enough evidence, or something, and then my mom would have to let Ms French go, and then whatever the Qu... I mean the Mayor is planning isn't going to happen! See, it's brilliant, it's gotta work."

Gold sighed. On a normal day, with both his feet planted firmly on the ground and his ability to navigate the garden of forking paths unimpaired, he would have stuck to a teasingly dismissive tone, letting nothing slip from behind his habitual mask, until the boy desisted with his unreasonable attempts to recruit him. On a normal day, or normal week, he wouldn't bother with Emma Swan's troubles as long as they didn't directly impact his own position on the playing field. Needless to say, these were not normal times by any stretch of the imagination. He felt too precarious for even humor, and, to add insult to injury and despite his best efforts, unable to un-see and un-think Ella out of his mind, if only to momentarily clear it.

He turned to the princeling, and when he opened his mouth, he was surprised to hear his lips articulate an honest reply.

" - It appears that someone has already carefully planned Ms French's representation. There is little I can do without being her lawyer, or at least without hiring one to represent her myself."

The boy's face fell, and he gave him a long, inquisitive stare, as if he was trying to see down to something underneath the surface. The feeling was uncomfortable, and Gold averted his gaze, pretending to be suddenly interested in something on the shelf. He was pretty sure he had a good idea about what the boy was looking for behind the usual facade. Children had the uncanny instinct of seeing past the masks, and were therefore much harder to manipulate than adults.

" - Don't you care about Ms French?"

Before he could catch himself, the air escaped his lungs with a sibilant hiss, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He stood still, leaning on his cane, letting the sudden ache settle, before he did the only thing he could to keep the pieces in a modicum of coherence - he laughed, breathlessly, with more anger than humor.

" - And what would you do if I said that I, in fact, do not?" He looked at the boy, keeping his expression carefully neutral. It was odd, this, the words caused pain, but the pain was reassuringly familiar, like an old pair of slippers that one really ought to throw away, but clings to with the irrational passion of a zealot. "Isn't that what... Everyone seems to think?"

He had meant to make the question rhetorical, but it came out more inviting of an answer than he liked.

The boy remained silent for a few moments, then frowned, shifted from one foot to another, and finally climbed unto a tall chair near Gold's desk, dragging the heavy bag onto his lap. By the look of it, the princeling was setting up camp.

" - I don't think you understand." Henry wiggled on the chair to position himself more comfortably, and began to rummage through his bag. After half a minute Gold was growing impatient, and was silently going through ways of getting rid of the meddling child, even though the boy's presence was oddly comforting if only because it took his mind off the immediacy of the emotional muddle in which he found himself. Finally, Henry came up with a triumphant "Got it!" He extended the print-out in the pawnbroker's direction, and the man took the crumpled paper and scanned it quickly.

" - See, they can't have a criminal trial here, based on Maine's law. They'd have to take her out of town." The boy leaned in, his elbows propped on the work desk, and his fingers interlaced, adopting perfectly the stance of a miniature mafioso. "And I think both you and I know that this isn't a good idea" he finished conspiratorially.

" - Henry, I don't think..." he started, but the boy shook his head vigorously, and extracted a heavy tome from his bag. He made room for it on Gold's cluttered work space, pushing the miscellanea out of the way and almost knocking off the unfinished chess set, to the pawnbroker's deep irritation. The boy paid him no attention, and, finally satisfied, plopped the book down on the work table with a cloud of dust. He casually dropped the bag with the rest of his paraphernalia to the floor, and cracked open his tome. Gold's heart skipped a few beats, despite the fact that he was perfectly aware of what the book was, or who had written it. "Could it be...," he wondered a little numbly, his thoughts suddenly sluggish and sticky like molasses, but before he could complete his silent question, the answer loomed in front of him.

The princeling had opened his book to a page somewhere in the middle, the text framed with an illustration of a man and woman he recognized perfectly, even though the clothing was different, and the man's appearance was not afflicted with excessive realism. The young woman, on the other hand, differed very little from her flesh and blood version.

He was suddenly struck by the hideousness of the creature that gazed at the two-dimensional rendition of the young woman on the drawing, feeling a wave of utterly irrational jealousy-tinged aversion towards it. He carefully held his face in as blank an expression as he could, and finally forced his eyes to meet the boy's almost triumphant stare.

" - I would say that I do not believe you." The princeling waited for a response, so Gold cocked an eyebrow.

" - Oh? Surely, this morning's newspaper should have disabused you of such unwarranted optimism."

The boy's face suddenly creased in a radiant smile.

"- I think I know who you are" he volunteered. "And if so, I think you can end the curse."

Gold offered the princeling a brief sharp grin, shrugged his shoulders, and leaned on his cane, resting both hands atop one another for additional stability.

" - I am not sure I know what you mean, Henry."

The princeling considered him through narrowed eyes. He looked almost nothing like his mother except for that same assessing look that seemed to say, in Sheriff Swan slightly abrasive tone, "I'm onto you, buddy."

" - I think you know" the princeling offered cheekily, and despite the circumstances, and the freshly re-opened old wound somewhere in his heart, or in whatever ethereal equivalent that organ stood for, Gold found himself chuckling.

" - Do enlighten me." He almost punctuated his comment with a teasing "your highness," but caught himself at the last moment.

" - I think you are the Beast, from the Beauty and the Beast. And I think Ms French is your True Love. So I think you two might be able to end the curse, because True Love can end all curses."

Gold turned away and stared, unseeing, at the shelf. It was a relief, in a way, that the boy didn't grasp his true nature, but then again such was the way with this world's folklore. It tended to compartmentalize things because it couldn't quite handle shades of gray. Which, in a sense, was only natural - it was adapted for children, and if there was one thing all children seemed to hate, it was ambiguity.

" - There are no such things as fairy tale monsters that turn into charming princes at the drop of a hat, Henry. Only real life ones that, deep down, are even more monstrous than on the surface. You should know that by now."

The words came out harsher than he intended, and he wondered briefly who he was trying to convince. In any event, it was not effective. The princeling looked at him smugly, as if his feeble pontifications only served to prove the original point. He opted for a different strategy.

" - Don't you think that if, indeed, there were a curse, and Ms French and myself were able to break it, it would have been broken by now?"

The boy's face formed into an expression of puzzled concentration, and Gold practically groaned at his own lack of foresight. Now he would either have to discuss the prosaic aspects of adult relationships with a ten year old, which was not a conversation he was in any way happy to have, or he would have to explain that the curse was, indeed, real, and that it's dissolution would require the same original "ingredient" as the thing that made it. Both avenues were a terrible idea.

" - Of course not. She doesn't remember who she is, how can she remember that she truly loves you?"

The child gave him one his mother's patent "Are you daft?" looks, and focused back on leafing through the pages.

" - Besides, this isn't about breaking the curse yet. We have to thwart Regina's plan first, so that Emma can do what she is supposed to do. Otherwise, I think Regina is going to make her leave, and then the curse will never break!"

Gold shook his head in profound puzzlement, but before he could respond, there was another knock at his door. He looked towards it with hostility. The back of his store was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where no one came uninvited. He kept the objects he was working on restoring hidden there, safe from greedy eyes, and before they acquired the patina of well-preserved antiques that came with hours of careful labor, they seemed naked and unpresentable to him, and certainly not fit to be scrutinized by curious intruders. He too felt stripped down and unpresentable, and receiving visitors in this state felt like the mental equivalent of chewing glass.

With a quiet groan, he made his way towards the door. On some level, and despite the irritation that the intrusions caused him, he felt relieved for the momentary reprieve from the unnervingly precocious princeling. The relief was short lived, however, abruptly terminated by the sight of the lanky scarecrow at his doorstep. Apparently, the universe had decided that he would, from now on, spend his time with children and madmen.

Would the ironies never cease?


	25. Chapter 25: M is for Mackerel

**As always, thank you all for your wonderful comments. ;-D Here is something a little more lighthearted to break through the doom in gloom. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 25**

**In which Leroy creates a diversion**

**"You know, comrade Pachman, I don't enjoy being a Minister, I would rather play chess like you, or make a revolution in Venezuela." ****Che Guevara, quoted in Ludek Pachman,**_**Checkmate in Prague**_**, 1975**

Leroy pushed open the door of the police station, and proceeded inside, navigating the corridors with the confidence of long-term familiarity. He readjusted the strap of his army bag, the old waterproof khaki canvas threadbare in places. The offending strap was actually half-torn, but he just couldn't get around to properly fixing it, and getting a new bag was out of the question. They just didn't make them like this anymore.

Realizing that the morning newspaper was still tucked under his arm, he stuffed the blasted rag into the side pocket, yanking the zipper closed as he hurried down the hallway towards the sheriff's office.

He'd walked this path more times than he cared to remember, though not usually of his own free will. Mostly, he'd been marched here by the late Sheriff Graham, for the minor offenses of public drunkenness and disorderly behavior, once or twice on the charge of public nudity when Regina caught him relieving himself on her hedges. He'd have to consider raising her one - maybe next time, he'd take a dump on her front porch, that'd show the hellish cow what his general opinion of her was, in case it wasn't clear yet.

After he'd read the front page of the morning paper, he'd been faced with a choice. Well, with three choices, in fact, but who was counting? The first option was to do nothing, and that would have been his normal course of action, except this time, this wasn't going to fly. He'd had about enough of "town politics" - and in this case, the stakes were way too high to simply wish all the participants a pleasant trip to hell in a hand basket, while he remained on the sidelines. It wasn't his habit to leave a comrade up shit creek, with or without the proverbial paddle, and that was exactly where Ella had found herself.

Now, the second choice was also his first impulse - to go have a little friendly chat with Gold, in other words, beat the smug bastard's face in with his own overpriced walking stick. It might not do much good for Ella, but it'd make him feel better. But, his initial anger aside, Leroy was a man who knew perfectly well that the stuff that was written in the media, and the stuff "truth" was made of were usually separated by a large gulf of flowing bullshit. He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't moronically inattentive, despite what most of the other townies clearly assumed. Whatever the rag seemed to claim about the pawnbroker's machinations just didn't square with the man's actual behavior towards the girl. Sure, the diner's tongue waggers had already begun the usual "I knew it!" tune, but that was people for you, miserable bitter bastards every last one of them. No one could just be content when others were happy and in love - no, there had to be skeletons making a grand entrance out of the closet at one point or another. And whenever dirt surfaced up they didn't even have the decency to be surprised, or to question it. No, of course not. They'd known it all along!

Scum.

It wasn't that he didn't necessary buy that Gold had paid for Ella's stay at the hospital. As far as he was concerned, he might have. But that wasn't the point - you have to look at the actual big picture, not at what the newspaper tells you the big picture is supposed to be. He might have paid for her because there was no other way she'd be able to afford it, she or her permanently broke father, for that matter. Leroy knew very well what happened to "crazy people" when they didn't have someone to pay their medical bills. More often than not, they ended up on the street, pushing a shopping cart around and mumbling to themselves. So as far as he was concerned, even if the paper was telling the "truth", whatever that was, it didn't exactly mean that the Royal Jerk of the Year Award should be going to the loan shark. There were a couple of potentially more deserving candidates, in Leroy's humble opinion. And besides, he suspected that Gold was probably the only one who could get the girl out of this mess. So beating the guy up, no matter how satisfying in theory, was definitely not the best thing to do for Ella.

That left him with choice number three, which was also surprisingly the most level-headed of them all. Well, who would've thunk, Leroy the bearer of reason and rationality. Wonders just never ceased.

He had a plan. He needed information, because he knew perfectly well that in a town like Storybrooke, information was power, and power was always, by definition, unequally distributed. So, as far as strategies went, the first step to any counter-offensive was to get as much information as he could get his hands on. He'd think what to do with what he would learn later. Right now, the goal was to figure out what Ella was in for. Besides, he'd had enough of just sitting on his hands. It was the least he could do for Ella, who was one of the only people in this dump who didn't treat him like a sub-class citizen.

He had some doubts that Sheriff Swan would be forthcoming. Hence the plan. It wasn't a good plan, and there was absolutely no guarantee that it wouldn't have him thrown in jail too, but then again, been there, done that, so why worry? He was suddenly glad Ruby had forced him to leave his car parked by the diner the night before. Who knew that the waitress's stickler "no-drunk-driving" attitude would have paid off in this way. Now he had the materials to implement his little scheme - good thing too that he never cleaned out his car. Again, the miracles just kept coming.

He hesitated only briefly before entering the office, taking a few seconds to scan his surroundings. Not much had changed since the time the office was occupied by its previous head honcho, may he rest in peace - desk, filing cabinet, copy machine, a couple of computers that were probably around when dinosaurs still walked the earth, and an equally ancient rotary phone.

He spotted the girl in one of the cells, huddled in a corner of the bare-bones cot, her legs tucked under her for warmth. He felt a momentary wave of resentment for Emma Swan, who he didn't normally think of as a cold-hearted bitch, but she could have at least scrounged up a blanket for her prisoner. Hell, the acrylic monstrosity stored in one of the office metal closets stank of piss and moth balls, but at least it was somewhat warm.

He knew from experience that the sheriff's office was heated only minimally, and the jail cells seemed to hoard up the cold. That was probably in infringement of some kind of city ordinance, prisoner rights and all that, but considering who the Mayor was, he figured the hellish woman was probably killing two birds with one stone - keeping the bills to a minimum, and maximizing the inmates' discomfort. Yep, a real asset to the town, that one. With an emphasis on the first syllable.

Sheriff Swan looked up from her papers and gave him a surprised look.

" - Yes?" she asked, waiting for him to justify his presence.

" - Sheriff Swan, I'm here to visit Ella."

He half expected her to spew off some bullshit about visiting hours, but the Sheriff just gave him a long steely look, and waved her hand in the direction of the jail cell. He walked over to the institutional chair next to the bars and plopped his bag on it.

The girl lifted her head slowly, and her tired features lit up in a wide, happy smile. She got up and moved to hug him through the bars, and he gave her an awkward one armed squeeze, trying not to crush her against the metal. He didn't like how she looked - tired and frail, and like she hadn't gotten any sleep for the last few days, her eyes rimmed with purplish shadows.

" - How you holding up, sister?" he asked quietly, and watched her eyes suddenly brim with unshed tears.

" - I'm alright. You know..." She looked lost for a second, then gave him a crooked, slightly ironic smile. "They feed me three times a day, and I've won three games of tic tac toe."

He raised an eyebrow.

" - Well, I've been playing against myself, so I guess it hardly counts, but sometimes you just need a worthy opponent." She smiled at his chuckles, and it looked almost genuine. "How are things... Out there?" He watched her face cloud over, but stuck with the humorous tone she seemed intent on setting. Brave girl, good for her. She'd need it.

" - Well, you haven't missed much. Ruby is bitching and moaning about how she can't run the place without you, Whale got so sloshed that he tried to put the moves on the coat rack. I think the attraction was mutual, 'cause he ended up knocking it over. Oh, and there is a new item on the menu."

" - Oh?" She grinned. "What is it?"

" - Celery and kale pie. At least, I think it's celery and kale. By the way it looks, it also could be whatever happened to grow in the alley this week. I think it's Granny's way of cutting costs and weeding out the members of the community stupid enough to order it. You know, one woman's mission to improve the town's "stock," one case of food poisoning at a time."

Ella laughed, but then her expression got dour again, and Leroy wondered if it was something he'd said. He had a good idea about what the girl wanted to know and wasn't asking, but he didn't want to push.

" - How is... Mr Gold?"

Leroy looked over his shoulder to see if Emma was watching, but she seemed focused on her notes.

" - Not so good. Walks around like the freshly risen undead. Like he just might jump you and try to eat your brains." At Ella's horrified expression, he threw up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I mean, he seems confused and royally pissed off."

She nodded, but her expression remained dark, and deeply miserable. He noticed a copy of the Daily Mirror in a corner of the jail cell. He couldn't see if it was today's, but something told him it must be. The something being Murphy's law, most likely. Ella noticed the direction of his gaze, and shrugged.

" - Madam Mayor paid me a visit this morning. Brought me some reading, for 'educational purposes,' as she said. It was... Educational."

Leroy's fists tightened and he considered the merits of punching the wall. He leaned towards Ella, making his voice as quiet as he could without alerting the sheriff.

" - Don't buy anything they say, sister. It's all a set-up. I can smell it."

She looked up at him with deep misery, and he hurried to continue.

" - Listen, I'll be honest with you. I don't particularly like the guy. I think he's a self-serving, manipulative, arrogant bastard. But you'd have to be dumb as a pile of bricks to think he doesn't care for you. I don't think he'd intentionally hurt you, but, more importantly, I don't think he'd lock you away and throw away the key. He's too selfish for that."

" - I am not so sure." She turned away, staring at something on the opposite wall with way more attention than the particular stretch of concrete warranted.

" - Believe you me, sister, I think there's something fishy in this whole story, and for once it ain't your loan shark. But first thing we gotta do is find out what the enemy is planning." She turned back to face him, and he thought he saw a glimmer of hope in there somewhere. Good. She needed to be on board for him to pull off the next part. He winked at her conspiratorially.

" - Ok, Leroy, your time's almost up" Emma Swan piped up unhelpfully, but he was ready. He beamed her his most winning smile, which wasn't too different from his angry snarl, but he didn't care a whole lot.

" - No problem, sister. Oh, I almost forgot." He opened his bag. The Sheriff tensed up, and he thought she was about to reach for her gun, so he threw up his hands, trying to calm her.

" - No funny business, I promise. I just brought you two a treat from the boat. Best marinated mackerel this side of Boston. I promise. Made it myself."

He extracted the large mason jar of murky brownish liquid, and popped open the lid. The office immediately filled with the stench of rotting fish.

" - See, the trick is to let the fish sit in the sun for a few hours, it tenderizes the meat and gives it that extra special flavor." He waved the jar around, trying to breath through his mouth as much as possible. He noted, to his satisfaction, that the Sheriff was going a bit green around the gills. He pretended not to notice, and walked over to her desk, setting the biological weapon on the corner. He continued, unfazed.

" - And the next trick, and that's the thing they don't tell you, is to add a whole head of garlic to the marinade. It complements the fishiness of the fish. 'Cause, you know, mackerel is one of the fishiest fish you can get. Sure, it doesn't have that ammonia smell that say, catfish has, but it's still pretty strong tasting, as far as fish goes. See, with catfish, or, say, shark, you'd soak it in milk to get the stink out, but not mackerel."

He rummaged through his bag, and came up with a small parcel of rye bread, wrapped in newspaper.

" - See, I know sushi's all the rage nowadays, "fresh fish doesn't smell" yadi-yada... but think about it. Our ancestors had no way of instant freezing the catch. We evolved eating fish that smelled of... Well, fish. Some people even treat it as a delicacy. Sort of like stinky cheese, you know? You're not going to convince a person who likes them fancy French cheeses that it ain't supposed to smell, now are you? I say, all this sanitized stuff is for wimps. Won't put hair on your chest. And speaking of cheese, wait til you see this!"

He made a show of looking through his bag again, but Emma didn't give him a chance to extract the final parcel. Good thing, too, because this last part was pure bluff.

She bolted to the door, hand plastered to her mouth, with that unmistakable look of a person in need of an intimate moment with the porcelain friend. Leroy was surprised she had lasted this long. The stench could have knocked over an army of nasally-impaired rhinos. He knew the bathroom was a long way down the hall, and it'd buy him time. Leroy chuckled, and as soon he heard the rushed footsteps down the corridor, promptly closed the lid on the bio-hazardous jar.

" - Leroy, what on Earth are you trying to do?" Ella's voice came out muffled, and he saw she was pinching her nose.

" - Don't worry, sister. I got this."

He quickly looked at the papers scattered on the desk, and spotted Ella's file, as well as a couple of official looking documents. He grabbed the stack, and hurried to the photocopier. Fortunately for him, the machine was not too antiquated, and he ran the stack through the fast feeder, picking up the printouts and stuffing them into his bag, along with the jar and the bread. He placed the original file back on the desk, as closely to the way it had been laid out before. The whole operation took him all of thirty seconds. If he had planned it right, Emma would still be in the bathroom, cleaning up, and he'd escape before she could confront him.

" - Gotta run, sister, but hang in there. We're going to figure this out."

" - Leroy, you shouldn't..."

He shook his head, and gave her a quick two finger to the head military salute in lieu of a goodbye. On his way out, he heard running water behind the closed door of the restroom, and smiled to himself. He'd done good.

Once outside and at a safe distance from the police station, Leroy ducked into an alley, opting for a shortcut to the pawnshop, just in case the sheriff smelled foul play and tried to give chase. He'd have to be careful until he managed to dispose of the papers. He realized he was going on a major limb, trusting his own eyes and guts over what the Daily Mirror suggested about Gold. If he was wrong, they would all be in a world of trouble, Ella most of all. But it wasn't like he had a whole lot of options.

He positioned himself behind a dumpster, shielded from curious gazes by its rusty flank. The alley smelled of garbage and urine, but he wasn't one to be impressed with the aromas of human refuse. He crouched on his haunches, set his bag down on a relatively clean patch of asphalt, and pulled out the file. He didn't have time to really look through the case materials, but he'd been curious about the official documents. The arrest warrant, if that's what it was, might have some useful info, but there had been two sheets that had an institutional seal, and he figured it'd give him a sense of where the investigation was at.

The first paper was indeed the arrest warrant, but it was the second that caught his attention. The top read "Notice of Transfer." He scanned it quickly. He hadn't paid attention to the little yellow sticky note that was attached to the bottom of the page when he had picked up the document, but the copier had caught it, and he read it.

" - Oh, shit." He scrambled up, stuffed the papers helter-skelter into the bag, and started towards the pawnshop at a rapid trot.

They were running out of time.

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**Voila. The next few chapters are the last ones in this story, and will most likely be a bit longer than what you're now used to.**


	26. Chapter 26: Misalliances

**Sorry, folks. A terribly long hiatus, but I've been swamped with RL. This is a little shorter, I'm trying to write in whatever spare moment I got to move this story along. Apologies if I didn't catch of the spelling mistakes. As always, your comments keep me going and guilt me into returning to this story when I should be doing other things, so please keep them coming =) Enjoy the season 2 premiere, everyone!**

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**In which decisions must be made**

"_**In a coat of gold or a coat of red,  
A lion still has claws,  
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,  
As long and sharp as yours." – The National, "The Rains of Castamere" **_

As far as war councils went, theirs seriously sucked. Henry looked from Mr Gold to the other man, then back again, and didn't quite know what to do. The two had been arguing for a while now, and he was getting seriously annoyed. He was ditching school already, and the more time they spent on trying to out-argue each other, the more he was going to be in trouble. It was ok, in a way, he'd just have to explain to Ms Blanchard that he had to 'avert a crisis' and she would probably understand, because she was cool like that. Probably, she'd understand. He was sick of coming up with excuses for why he was late, or had sneaked out during recess and then didn't come back. Ms Blanchard covered for him, but he had a feeling that he'd get sent to the principle of things kept up, and then, Regina would find out and likely ground him until the end of time.

He really didn't like grown-ups much at all. Well, except for his mom, who totally rocked, except that she didn't see what was perfectly obvious to Henry himself. Most other grown-ups were either constantly miserable, which he guessed had something to do with the Curse, and the fact that their lives were pretty much one big huge scam, but also because for some reason they seemed to enjoy it. Probably so they could complain to everyone they knew how horrible their lives were. It was weird. He wouldn't grow up to be like that, definitely not.

Case in point, those two were a total mess. Mr Gold was upset, but that was pretty normal, since his True Love was stuck in jail. Henry observed the pawnbroker from the safety of the work table. He was always a little intimidating, sure, but for some reason everyone else seemed to think Mr Gold was the Boogeyman. But he'd always been really nice to Henry, even when he was obviously busy and didn't want to be bothered. Now, why this Jefferson guy was acting like an angry rhino, he really couldn't figure out. The man didn't make a whole lot of sense, going on about card combinations, which only seemed to make Mr Gold madder. Neither seemed to be getting the point at all, that the Queen was using Ms French to get rid of Emma, and also to make Mr Gold look bad. Well, maybe that wasn't really the truth, maybe they did know it, but just couldn't let the other see that they knew, and so they just kept arguing over stupid things. Like why Jefferson wanted to help. Shouldn't it be enough that he was on their side?

" - I fail to see the reason for your involvement here. Why the sudden interest in Ms French's fate?"

They had gone through this a thousand times already, and each time Jefferson would just say something vague like "I wish to help" and back they were to square one. Like one of those stuck-records that Regina sometimes played on their fancy antique record player. It said Victrola on the side, and Henry had taken to calling it that, but Regina always corrected him. "It's a gramophone, Henry. Names are important, you should always call things their proper name." He'd argue that Victrola _was_ its proper name, but he'd have more luck talking down a brick wall.

" - Then I suggest you look harder."

There they went again. Now they were glaring at each other. Mr Gold obviously didn't like that comment, because he got all bristly like a porcupine, and gave one of his strange chuckles that weren't chuckles at all, because he clearly didn't think there was anything funny about their situation. He did that when he was massively angry, and Henry sort of scooted a bit under the work table, just to be on the safe side.

At first, Henry had tried to make them stop and see the big picture, but they just dismissed him and went right back to it. It reminded him of this show he'd seen on Nature Planet once, with moose... Or maybe elk? The male elk just stood there making weird noises at each other, and then, when they got all riled up, they started smashing each other with their giant horns. Something about rutting season, whatever that was. All Henry got out of it is that they did it so the girl elk would pay attention to them. There was no girl elk to be impressed with anybody right now, so the two men's behavior just didn't make much sense at all, especially since the girl in question – Ms French – was stuck in jail.

He suddenly had an idea. Maybe Jefferson was not on their side at all. Maybe he'd been sent by Regina to distract them, and waste time. He hadn't seen him around, so he wasn't really sure who he was supposed to be, but since they were running in circles for a long while now, he was definitely not helping. And Henry had a feeling that time was actually running out. If they didn't get their act together, his ditching school would be the least of his problems. Sure, he'd be grounded until the cows came home, but Regina would eventually forget, and things would get back to business as usual. She never really stayed mad at him for all that long. But, meanwhile, he knew his adoptive mother wanted to get rid of Emma, and it was pretty clear to Henry how she'd do it. She'd send her away with Ms French, and then neither would come back. Emma had already tried to leave town once, and it didn't work – she even crashed the car – so he figured that the same rules applied to her now. Once you tried to leave, bad things happened. The only way out was to break the curse, and they needed Emma for that because she was the savior.

If only Mr Gold and Jefferson would get on board with the program, that would be grand, but Henry wasn't getting his hopes up.

" – Why are you _really_ here?" There was something sly about Mr Gold's voice, and the way he started circling Jefferson made Henry think of a shark, slowly closing in on its prey. He didn't think Mr Gold was actually a bad guy – if his theory was correct, and he was the Beast, then he was actually decent deep down, if a bit scary. Well, maybe very scary.

Jefferson didn't seem all that frightened, though. He just stood there, and stared at Mr Gold. Then, after a really long pause, he sighed.

" – I want to atone for my mistakes."

Mr Gold stopped circling.

" – Your _mistakes_? And, pray tell, what are your _mistakes_?"

The way he was spitting out the word "mistakes" made Henry want to duck even further behind the work desk, but he didn't want to look like a scared little kid, so he sat up straighter. But Jefferson still wasn't cowed by all this. He too stood straighter, and for a while the two men played the staring game. Neither was willing to lose to the other, so Jefferson simply smiled in that weird, slightly insane way of his, and ran his hand through his hair.

" – I know she didn't do anything. Ella is innocent."

" – Of course, she's innocent, discovered that ye'self, did ye? But you obviously know something you're not telling, so out with it!"

Henry thought it was strange how Mr Gold's Scottish accent came out more strongly when he was upset. Was it part of who he was in this world, or did he have it in Fairytale Land too, Henry wondered.

Meanwhile, Mr Gold was losing patience, which was bad news for all of them.

" – I…" The tall lanky man turned away, looking at the shelves for support, but they apparently weren't too helpful, because he turned away in disgust, and started pacing back and forth.

" – You what?"

" – I was the one who helped Regina make a case against Ella."

There was a moment of absolute silence, where you could have heard a pin drop. Then Henry saw something completely and utterly _evil_ cross Mr Gold's face, and the man leaped at Jefferson with way more speed than Henry thought possible. He instinctively flew out of his chair, and backed away as far away from the pair as he could. But then Mr Gold caught himself, dropped his hands from Jefferson's throat, and stood very still. He rubbed his face with his hand. The other one went to the edge of the table, and gripped it until the knuckles went white. Henry didn't want to breathe or move, just in case the pawnbroker flew into a rage again.

" – Explain."

Jefferson exhaled slowly.

" – I hadn't known. She never told me who it was for. I was to make the illustrations, and photograph them. It was done… years before I even knew Ella existed."

Mr Gold just kept staring at Jefferson like he wanted to make him disappear in a puff of smoke.

" – And you never thought to question? You never…"

" – She told me I would never see my daughter again if I didn't obey."

There was a long pause after that, and Henry slowly reclaimed his position on the chair. Maybe he was being too optimistic, but he hoped the danger had passed. This was maybe good for them – from what Henry could make out, Jefferson had proof that Ella was innocent, and they could clear this whole mess. If only they'd just stop trying to steamroll each other.

" – So." Mr Gold was back to his whole circling business. "You can set this straight. You can talk to Emma, you can explain that…"

" – No."

Henry's breath caught in his throat, and he coughed. Definitely too early to get his hopes up.

" – What do you mean, 'no'?"

" – I cannot. Grace needs a father."

Mr Gold threw his head back and laughed, in that entirely unamused way of his.

" – She doesn't _know_ you. As far as the girl is concerned, she _has_ a father."

Jefferson shrugged.

" – It does not matter. You can probably grasp this better than most."

It was as if someone had sucked all the air out of Mr Gold. He slumped over his cane, his shoulders hunched. To Henry, he suddenly looked really old.

" – Then why come here?" Mr Gold waved his hand in Jefferson's direction. "What was the purpose of this entire charade? Taunt me? Did our good Mayor put you up to this?"

Jefferson stood silent for a long time.

" – She did not. As I said, I wish to help."

" – How can you _possibly_ help?!"

He was about to try to get their attention, just to make sure Mr Gold didn't fly off the handle again, when the back door was pushed open. They all looked, and Henry jumped out of his seat when he saw who it was. He was really glad to see Leroy, because it meant that Mr Gold and Jefferson would have another person to deal with, and maybe wouldn't end up in a fist fight. And, besides, Leroy was Ms French's friend, so he was alright.

" – It appears that my shop is the new favorite site for congregating. Perhaps I should rename it 'Gold's Bazaar.' What can I do for you, Leroy?"

The burly man proceeded inside, threw a puzzled look at Jefferson, and plopped two papers down on the table. The two men finally stopped bickering, and they all peered to look at the sheets. Mr Gold was the first to lift his head, and his eyes met Henry's. It was hard to read things upside down, but Henry got the idea.

" – A notice of transfer to the capital? But they can't leave. That means…" Jefferson was looking from Leroy to Mr Gold, to Henry, and back again.

" – Enough." Mr Gold was still staring at him, so Henry pulled his backpack from the ground, and hugged it to his chest. "We have less than an hour. We have to act."

" – I hate to break it to you, but I doubt you can convince Emma to release Ms French."

" – That remains to be seen" the pawnbroker gritted out, turning to Jefferson. "You will do nothing?" There was a threat in Mr Gold's voice, but Jefferson simply shook his head.

" – I cannot. I can only offer you background knowledge of how this was orchestrated. The part I played, at least."

" – Then tell me everything, in fifteen minutes or less. I need to know as many details as possible." Mr Gold seemed to think. "I especially need to know what story your … activities were intended to project."

The two men looked at each other for a long time, and then Jefferson nodded slowly.

" – I don't know what the two of you've been drinking, but this ain't exactly story time."

Mr Gold made a wave with his hand, dismissing Leroy.

" – Would you please accompany the boy back to school? We can't afford the Mayor finding out that he'd been around here."

Leroy grumbled something about ingrates, but Henry sprung to his feet, and went for the door. He pulled at the fisherman's coat sleeve, trying to make him pay attention. Maybe, it had been a mistake to come to Mr Gold. But if he had Leroy on his side, then maybe, just maybe, he'd pull it off.

" – I have an idea" he whispered as quietly as he could, but Leroy seemed to have exceptional hearing. He nodded discreetly, and let Henry pass ahead of him.

" – Don't spend too long chewing the fat – if I know Emma, she'll be on the road by 3pm sharp."

With that, Leroy walked out of the store, with Henry leading the way.


	27. Chapter 27: Jailbirds

**Folks, this chapter is short, but I have to travel for work in the next few days, and won't be able to continue until sometime next week. Didn't want to leave you all without a little something. Reviews/comments always happily received (oh, and try not to hate me too much here...hehe)**

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**Chapter 27**

**In which history repeats, but only slightly**

_**"I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved." - Soren Kierkegaard**  
_

"- Ok, I am almost done with this paperwork, and then we better hit the road."

Ella lifted her head slowly, trying to figure out if she had misheard. Her mind was playing tricks on her since she had been locked up, making it harder to differentiate between the things that went inside her head from the things outside. She had slipped into her old habits like they were a comfortable battered dress that you did housework in, intensely familiar down to the fraying hem and tea-stained sleeve. Being locked up, unable to leave, entirely at the mercy of someone else's will was like a second skin. And yet, it made your mind free, because that was the one thing that no-one could take from you unless you gave it away yourself.

Now, a heart… well that was a different matter entirely.

Her monster behind its fence no longer howled, the way it had the first few nights that they spent behind bars. It was quiet now, withdrawn, no longer willing to come out and play. It had trotted off, further into the murk of her consciousness, and there, in the labyrinth of thoughts where she lived, it stalked its prey. Perhaps, she'd be its next victim. Your mind couldn't be taken from you, but it could be lost.

Since Leroy had left, she had fallen into a dull, semi-conscious stupor. He had been the first person that she had really talked to since Madam Mayor's newspaper bearing visit that morning. She eyed the rag, still lying in the corner like a coiled snake. It would have been nice to be able to kick it through the bars, out of her reach, so she wouldn't be tempted to re-read it again. It was like a scab, you knew picking at it only made it worse, but it was almost magnetic in its ugliness. Then again, she didn't dare discard it, because then Emma Swan would make one of several assumptions, none of which Ella was especially happy with. Dignity was like sanity, you could lose it, but throwing it away on purpose seemed monumentally wasteful.

She forced herself to focus. Sheriff Swan had mentioned something about leaving. Ella examined the blond woman through the bars, noticing for the first time the dark shadows under her eyes, and the way her hair seemed to sag around her face in limp strands, as if she hadn't bothered brushing her usually perfect golden curls, or washing them for that matter. She was drinking her second pot of coffee that morning. She too was battling monsters, Ella thought, as they all were, each and every one of them running from a foe invisible to everyone else. She almost smiled, but then her heart fell, and the smile sloughed off. _He_ would have found the idea amusing as well.

She hugged herself, digging the tips of her fingers into her arms, and rocked back and forth a few times, tunelessly humming the first thing that came to mind, and trying to throw all her attention at the melody, just to shut out her thoughts. After ten or fifteen seconds, the soul sucking vacuum in the middle of her chest was down to a dull ache, but she was grateful. She didn't _have_ to think about it. She could choose her thoughts. That, at least, she had.

She returned her attention to the sheriff.

"- Hit the road?" Her voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well. Ella winced, and cleared her throat.

Sheriff Swan was watching her, an improbable combination of wariness and concern molding her strong features into a strange expression, and Ella noticed, mesmerized, the flicker of a tough, cautious, terribly sad child, like a little feral creature, peek through the face of an attractive adult woman. Fate hadn't bothered introducing Emma Swan to life's bitter lesson one by one, over time, so that she had the chance to absorb them and grow a thicker skin. Instead, it had unloaded on her the "Guide to Why Life Sucks" - the Definitive Edition, unabridged and annotated - and made her rote memorize it in one sitting.

To what extent was one's own personal monster that forgotten child they all carried inside themselves, locked up and mute, but never gone for good? What terrible, stupid, cruel things would a person do just to avoid facing it, escape its bottomless disappointed gaze?

Ella didn't know.

" – Where are we going?" she repeated, not really expecting an answer. That was the thing about being a prisoner – the normal rules of courteous conversation no longer applied to you once you were behind bars. Those on the outside could take it or leave it, and most of the time they'd choose to leave it, because what if your misfortune was somehow communicable?

Sheriff Swan paused for a long moment. Ella suddenly thought that she could almost appreciate the woman. The sheriff didn't treat her like something contagious. Emma Swan was one of those people who'd be willing to drink from the leper's bowl, she thought randomly. Not just because she was courageous, but because she knew a thing or two about both sides of the bars, and that the symbolic barrier was a lot more permeable than one might think.

" – I have to take you to Augusta. The notice of transfer came in this morning." Sheriff Swan chewed on a pen, her brows knit together in a deep, puzzled frown. "Apparently, the local court is too small to process felony cases, but that's only part of it. Once you get a counselor appointed to you, he or she might be able to convince the court that you should be assessed for mental competency. And Augusta has more specialists." Sheriff Swan looked at her over the desk. "It might be a good thing."

" – A good thing for whom?"

Sheriff Swan shrugged. Ella observed her stuffing the papers in a manila envelope, not so different from the one Madam Mayor had slid towards her over the diner's Formica table the very first day she had been released from the psych ward. It felt like an eternity ago, but even in eternity, life proceeded in cycles.

Ella didn't know all that much about the legislative procedures to which she now had to submit, other than the obvious fact that if there were a trial, it would not be here. The thought of leaving Storybrooke left her with a mix of wariness and anxiety. Why was someone so intent on sending her away? It all seemed very rushed. Even if she had done those terrible things – killed her betrothed in a fit of insanity, as everyone seemed to believe – why was she treated like a powder keg with a flaming wick? Did they think she would kill again?

A horrible thought crossed her mind, but she squished it before it could fully form. _He_ wouldn't think that she could harm him, would he?

She focused on safer questions. Did she even know anyone who had ever been outside of town, other than Sheriff Swan? Was it warmer where they were going?

Ella fidgeted on her cot coat or cot?, and, failing to find a comfortable position, stood up and started pacing. Her muscles ached, her entire body felt stiff and brittle. Of all the things she should be upset and worried about, she couldn't shake the thought that she had gone without showering for over 48 hours, and didn't want the town folk's last impression of her be one where she looked so unkempt. That first day, Ruby had told her that unkempt and crazy were kissing cousins, and Ella had been meticulous about looking neat and well put together, even when she had barely enough cash to buy groceries. And now, they would see her like this, and nod sagely, whispering to each other that they had known all along there was something odd about that one.

_He_ would see her like this.

She gripped her elbows, and half-moaned, half-hummed, a childish tune percolating to the surface from somewhere deep and long forgotten. Hang on to the melody, she told herself. Just listen. Listen. It's all that matters. It's all that exists.

She hummed, and like the time before, the awful agitation lost some of its urgency.

" – Are you alright?"

Ella lifted her head slowly, and nodded.

" – We have to get on the road in about twenty minutes, otherwise we won't make it before everything closes. I'll go check the car." She gave Ella a steely look. "If your buddy Leroy comes back with his fish, I recommend you tell him to get the hell out of here before I arrest him on attempted murder."

Sheriff Swan got up, stretched her back with a loud pop, and walked out. Ella listened to her footsteps echoing further and further down the corridor, rested her forehead against the bars, and closed her eyes.

Well, that was it, then.

Her attention was drawn by a commotion. She had expected the distant thud of the front door closing shut, but instead she heard muffled voices, and two sets of footsteps walking back towards the office. She couldn't hear the words, but Sheriff's Swan raspy contralto bounced off the walls in angry exclamations. Whoever her companion was, he or she was not giving Sheriff Swan any reason for happiness.

" – Are you completely out of your mind? I swear, Gold, I don't know what game you're playing, but if you think…"

Ella froze, her hands gripping the bars for dear life. He had not visited her once since she had been jailed. Perhaps, she had misheard. The walls of her labyrinth were full of strange echoes. Even if the newspaper article wasn't true, even if he hadn't locked her up, why would he come now? Why wouldn't he come before? With a herculean effort, she swept her mind clean of any thought, leaving only a vast empty plane where nothing remained except her immediate perceptions. She looked around as if she had never seen the room before – the cluttered desk, old brick-colored phone, worn out chair… a cot, a crack in the concrete wall, metal bars covered in black paint that peeled in places. A graffiti in a far corner, scratched into the crumbly grey surface. It read "My heart is good, but still I am a monster."

She turned away.

" – Gold, seriously, if this is some kind of a joke…"

" – No joke, Ms Swan. Does it appear to you that I'm in a laughing mood?"

The footsteps got closer.

" – It appears to me that you've either lost your mind, or you're trying another one of your damn schemes, and either way, I don't like it."

They stopped a little outside of the office door, but Ella could still hear. She reminded herself to breathe.

" – Ms Swan, the case against Ms French won't stand in court. We both know it. A half-experienced lawyer could pull it apart."

" – Do you have anything more substantial than empty intimidation?"

Ella heard him chuckle, and shuddered involuntarily.

" – I should certainly hope so."

There must have been something about Gold's expression, because Sheriff Swan's voice came out full of incredulity and surprise.

" – You can point me to a witness?"

He paused.

" – I can do better than that, sheriff. I can point you to the real perpetrator."

" – Oh?" Now there was also a note of suspicion in the woman's intonation. "And who might that be?"

" – Why, you're looking at him, Ms Swan."


	28. Chapter 28: The Road to Hell

**Folks, it's been a long long time, but since we're in hiatus with the show, I decided to continue with the story to give you something to tie you over. As always, thanks for reading and sorry I abandoned you all for so long! Comments always welcome. ;)**

* * *

**Chapter 28**

**In which no good deed will be left unpunished**

Gold watched Sheriff Swan's expression slowly morph from puzzlement to irritation, although, at first glance, one might not have been able to tell the two apart. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step back, not much more than pivoting a hip, really, but it was enough for him to realize that she wasn't buying what he was trying to sell. No matter, he thought, like most - perhaps more than most- Sheriff Swan was desperate to believe that everything had a rational explanation. She would put up a show of protest, but what he was offering was a convenient solution to all the loose ends. If all fingers pointed in one direction, and all mouths clamored 'monster,' then why seek beyond the obvious?

" - What part of 'would you like a confession' didn't you understand, Ms Swan? Would a silver platter add some clout? A ribbon perhaps?"

He felt oddly feather-weight, something of his old self seeping back through the rigid mask of the Mr Gold persona, which, of course, was as much part of him now as was any other mask he had ever worn. The levity felt familiar yet forgotten - after all, this had been the best secret Rumpelstiltskin had ever kept, the one thing that he had locked away from all others, a private joke with himself. For all his scheming and plotting, for all his weaving and calculating, moments like these were what brought him true, unadulterated joy. They were so rare, those moments when his own decisions and actions caught him off guard, leaving him to play catch up with the train of events he had propelled into motion with no clear sense of the consequences. Chaos was the harshest and most enticing of mistresses, and he allowed himself to give in to her charms only on the rarest of occasions.

But beneath the joy of the slight surprise of action was that other emotion that was nothing he understood, so he kept trying to chase it off from the threshold of his thoughts, only to find it knocking again, uninvited but undeterred. It laughed and pointed and called him a liar.

" - Listen, Gold, I sympathize with the fact that you're trying to get your girlfriend out of jail, but you're barking up the wrong tree here. I don't have time for this. We have to leave in less than half an hour, and you're wasting my time."

He threw his head back and laughed. On a different day, he would have appreciated Emma Swan's unwavering focus - something about bulls and red cloth came to mind, although, of course, bovines were perfectly color-blind, and couldn't care less about the particular hue: they were simply annoyed at the cretin waving a piece of fabric at them. But not today. Today, his amusement had a bitter finish. The train was grinding into motion all too slowly for his taste, like some steam-powered monstrosity that the people of this world had invented over a hundred years ago, and then sang the praises of, as if this coal-guzzling, smoke spitting monster was the epitome of progress. Although, in a world without magic, they'd had to channel their creativity somewhere, so who was he to blame them?

" - Ms Swan, I repeat - if you want to learn what became of Gus Tonner, you might wish to ask me what I was doing on the night of October 19th... Oh, about five years ago?"

Emma Swan stared at him, not a muscle on her face moving from its "You're full of rubbish" position, but finally she threw her hands up and turned away, starting towards the office.

" - You have ten minutes, Gold. I'll give you a pen and paper, and you can write your confession. Then I'll read it, and if it sounds like a crock of shit, as I suspect it is, I'll throw you in jail for obstruction of justice and head out of town as soon as the door is locked. We clear on that?"

" - Abundantly so, Ms Swan." He smiled, without much humor, as she turned back to give him an evil glare. "I'll try to make sure I don't disappoint."

She stopped and stared, as if by boring her gaze into his face she could peel the layers of masks and reveal the thing hidden beneath it all. Well, she could certainly try.

" - Ms Swan? When do my ten minutes expire? I was under the impression we were in a hurry."

She turned away abruptly and proceeded into her office. He thought he heard her mumble under her breath, something in the vein of "I don't get it" - but let it slide. The Sheriff picked up a set of keys and walked out to join him in the hallway. He hadn't planned on it, but his feet seemed to move him into the office with a will of their own, and he found himself standing by the desk, looking towards the cages with a kind of dumbfounded nightmare-like anxiety, as if the person he would find there was not Ella... Belle, he reminded himself, fighting off a sudden and unpleasant feeling of vertigo... but a complete stranger, someone who meant as little to him as everyone else, and would finally expose his decision for what it was. Which is to say, complete and utter insanity.

She looked at him through the bars, and the illusion burst like a soap-bubble. There was no taking it back now - it was all perfectly clear, painted on her features, concentrated in the purple shadows under her eyes, in the way her lips stayed frozen as if it took all of her will not to move them. She looked like she hadn't slept in a few days.

His head fogged momentarily, and so he focused on the Hatter's tale, recalling its details bit by bit, lies upon lies with holes that he would have to fill with substance and meaning if he were to convince the Swan princess of anything. He tore his gaze from the cages, and redirected it towards the sheriff. How had she come by that name, anyway? Swan... He'd known about one swan princess, but that was long ago, an old story. In this world, he'd heard a version of it once, coming from some frigid land over the ocean, the narrative crude and filled with the echoes of primordial fears, dancing shadows cast by the glare of the campfire in the dead of night. Something about a cursed princess who took human form at night to bathe in the lake, but became a swan at daybreak, until some irresponsible youth, convinced that he was in love with her, stole her swan garb and condemned her to exile. Something like that. He couldn't quite recall.

" - Mr Gold? Shall we?"

He followed her through another door, into a space that was the illegitimate love child of a waiting room and a broom closet. He sat on the plastic chair, a sheet of unlined printer paper and an orange disposable pen facing him, took one look at Ms Swan, and proceeded to write.

He had never written a confession. He supposed there was a format to these things, but either Ms Swan was simply leaving him enough rope to hang himself from, or she wasn't entirely clear on the procedure either. He watched his hand raise and fall, tracing the neat loops of his hand-writing, feeling alienated from both the words and the movements that created them. He had revised it a few times on his way to the station, and now the story was like something you'd tell a child, when he asks you to narrate a bed-time tale you had already told many times before. And like those old and well-loved stories, this one was meant to provide a sense of predictability and closure to disparate fragments that all the King's men would be hard pressed to make sense of, let alone put back together.

And so, he wrote. Something about Belle's fiancé in high school, something about employing her at his store, a few dry but unambiguous statements about their supposed scandalous affair. He paused, shook his head to clear it, then resumed. He turned to his memories to channel the bit about Gaston - or Gus Tonner, as Emma Swan would know him, even though the character never existed on this side of the Looking Glass, as the Hatter so evocatively (albeit imprecisely) reminded him. He had enough details about the tableaux to fill in the blanks with make-belief relationship drama, but he continued in a dry, almost academic tone. Somehow, it seemed more believable. The last part - the nail in the coffin, as it were - was easy. The Hatter had told him about the baton, and he had no doubt that Emma Swan would latch to it like it was the buoy that would keep her from sinking. Fingerprints mattered in this world - again, the epitome of progress, since no one seemed able to see those unmistakable traces people left on all the objects they touched or felt strongly about. He had taken the baton, he wrote, and of course, he always wore gloves.

He ran his eyes over his concocted confession, and signed at the bottom with a flourish. He put the pen down with a definitive clank.

" - Well, Ms Swan, the ball is in your court. You have your ... document."

She walked over to the table slowly, picked the sheet of paper, and settled on the edge of the desk to read it. The scene was so absurdly reminiscent of how schools in this world operated that Gold smiled to himself. He turned his head, but, not finding a window, stared at the wall.

Finally, Emma Swan lifted her eyes from the paper, and stared at him, for what felt like an eternity.

" - Gold." She paused. "I don't know why you're doing this. Yes, the story is convincing. And normally..." She paused again, biting the tip of the pen she had picked up absentmindedly, her eyebrows drawn together. "Normally, I'd cuff you and lock you up until the court hearing."

The only thing cutting through the cottony silence of the narrow room was the soft clanking sound of the plastic pen against the sheriff's teeth. He briefly wondered whether she was actually aware of the tic. Finally, Emma sighed and stared at him, her eyes fixed on his.

" - I have this funny skill" she trailed slowly. "I don't know if I've told you about it." She waited for him to ask, and so he obliged.

" - I don't know if you did, Miss Swan. Do enlighten me."

" - I can always tell when someone is lying. And that is exactly what you're doing. The main question is why."

He cocked an eyebrow.

" - What makes you think I'm not telling you the truth? Other than your supposed skill, that is."

She shrugged.

" - Because you're not that impulsive, Gold. No offense, but what you do best is scheme and scheme, and pull people's strings until they all dance to your tune. I don't buy for a second that you killed this Tonner fellow in a fit of jealous rage. Sorry, I just don't. Even if you two had a fight, and he attacked you, and even if it was self-defense that you then decided to cover up as an accident because you thought no one would believe your version of the story." She looked at him from the height of her perch at the edge of the desk. "You would've found a way to remove him without getting your hands dirty" she concluded, the stared into space for a few seconds. Finally, she continued.

" - The rest sounds like you, alright - you realized that Ms French's guilty conscience would eventually lead to you, decided to make a deal with Regina to put her away - that might be something you'd do. But again, I don't buy it. I'm not an idiot, Gold."

She look pensive, almost far away. He waited for her to continue with a tight-lipped smile.

"- Nope" she concluded. "I don't buy it. You're not the type to give up something you think you own so easily."

He noticed that he was grinding his teeth, and ordered himself to relax his jaw.

" - So." Sheriff Swan got up. "Here's where I think we're at: you either killed Mr Tonner for a different reason, or under different circumstances, and you're trying to make yourself look better by feeding me this story, or you didn't kill him at all and selflessly want to take the fall for Ms French. I find the latter scenario highly unlikely, to be honest. So, which is it?"

* * *

Leroy hurried after the boy, walking briskly down the street. He hoped as all hell the kid had a plan, because his own bout of brilliance had ended with the jar of rotting fish. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Gold walk into the police station. He vaguely hoped that the loan shark would ratchet up his best slimy-but-threatening mojo. Not that he thought Emma Swan would be all that impressed with whatever the pawn shop owner dished out. There was clearly no love lost between those two, so the chances that Sheriff Swan would lend a sympathetic ear to Gold's arguments were slim. Then again the guy didn't have to apply himself too much to be intimidating – provided, of course, that Miss Swan was the sort to be impressed with mafia-style quiet threat. Leroy didn't think she was, but stranger things had happened. Then again, as far as Leroy was concerned, this was shaping up to be a case of the proverbial unstoppable force meeting the no less proverbial unmovable object.

For a brief second he felt a deep sense of puzzlement at his own active participation in the freak show that had unfolded around Gold, his belle, and the rest of the supporting cast. He was doing this for Ella, he reminded himself. She had done nothing to deserve the shit storm.

Henry stopped abruptly, and Leroy almost ran into the boy, bracing himself against the hood of a car at the last minute to slow down his momentum. He looked over at the car and noted with a wince that it was the police cruiser. Not a good place to loiter. He frowned at the kid.

" – We have to stop them from leaving."

Henry's brown eyes were fixed on him in an unlikely mix of quiet intensity and childish pleading. Leroy felt a slight pang of frustration. As far as he knew, they had been on the same page all along – the question still remained how this wonderful goal would be achieved in practice.

" – D'you have something in mind?" he asked, not really expecting Henry to come up with anything actually feasible. That was the problem with kids – they lived in their own little world, all wild fantasies and unicorns, but then, when you had to deal with the messy pragmatics, no unicorns came to the rescue.

" – Well, we don't have time to go find new evidence. So maybe we can mess up the car? If we let the air out of the tires, then Emma won't be able to go anywhere."

Leroy stared. Then he stared some more. Finally, when he realized that he probably looked as clever as a carp on barbiturates, he opened his mouth and, with a herculean effort, forced out some words.

" – Kid, you realize that's completely illegal, right? It's a sure way to get arrested." Then he gave it some thought, and grumbled under his breath. The irony of the statement was truly bottomless, and was apparently not lost on the kid, either.

" – Do you have a better idea?" the boy asked, and although he sounded genuinely curious, rather than, say, defiant or snarky, Leroy still felt like a complete ass.

" – Well, I'd say it'd be better if we did this under the cover of night, but since we're pressed for time…" He looked the kid over. "Stand watch, I'll handle it."

It was easier said than done. Henry walked up and down the sidewalk, looking as conspicuous as any little boy clearly skipping school, and making a show of appearing nonchalant and whistling to himself. Gritting his teeth, and softly mumbling curses under his breath, Leroy fished out a Swiss army knife, caught the crescent-shaped indentation with a short grimy fingernail, and unfolded the awl. He removed the cap from the valve, and just as he was about the insert the awl and let out the air, a shadow fell on him. He heard someone clearing his throat. He stopped, hand suspended above the wheel and still holding the pocket knife, and lifted his head slowly.

" – Aw, shit" was all he said. There, towering above him, with a squirming and guilty Henry in tow, stood Albert Spencer, Storybrooke's district attorney.

" – Trying to sabotage the police cruiser, I see."

Leroy stared at the fellow, in all his bald-pated glory, taking in the unpleasant smile and the expensive wool overcoat, and decided that today was the day when all his bad karma had decided to come by and collect its due.


	29. Chapter 29: What You Hold Most Dear

**Folks, some of you (you know who you are) have encouraged me to write a reunion moment. Well, I have decided to oblige. I warn you, this chapter is more fluff than plot advancement, although something quite significant does happen, so keep reading. As always, thank you for your comments, reviews, and a happy new year to everyone!**

* * *

**Chapter 29**

** In which Ella finally makes peace with her monster**

**"A real sacrifice involves a radical change in the character of a game which cannot be effected without foresight, fantasy, and the willingness to risk." - _Leonid Shamkovich_**

Ella paced back and forth, measuring the short distance between one wall and the other with abbreviated staccato steps. Her body did not feel quite her own, like something taken out of the icebox and left to thaw on the counter. She concentrated on preventing her teeth from chattering, but the internal tremor was there to stay, simply burrowing deeper and lower, encasing her ribcage, shooting down to the icy-cold tips of her fingers, coiling in her lower belly in a kind of unpleasant and somehow malevolent hollowness. She forced herself to breathe, but her exhales came out in agonizing little bursts, and she had the distinct impression that she was releasing less air than she was drawing in. Perhaps, she thought, she would eventually explode, like an overfilled balloon, or better yet, become weightless and float to the ceiling of her cell.

Her private monster lurked in the depths behind its fence and observed. It was strangely calm in all of this, as if there was a zero sum game between how much sanity the two of them could share between them. The less stable she felt, the more collected the other side of her became. There, in the cage of her body where it was imprisoned, as surely as her own body was encased in a cell, the presence of the other was becoming, for lack of a better analogy, increasingly purposeful.

She didn't know what she had expected her reaction to be at seeing Gold, but whatever she had anticipated, reality failed to deliver. Her first thought was that he had aged - rapidly, uncontrollably, like someone afflicted with a wasting sickness. Where had the silver hair on his temples come from? Had it been there all along and she hadn't noticed?

Imprisonment wasn't anything new to her, and she had long since learned to not find physical confinement all that daunting - after all, her mind could not be contained, and it roamed free, even if this freedom ultimately came at the expense of sanity. But sanity didn't seem like such a high price to pay.

Yet, for the first time in what felt like ages she became acutely, viscerally aware of the physical limits put on her body. When he had entered the room, she had felt frozen in place, the ice shard in her heart radiating cold to her lips, binding her shoulders, and she couldn't move towards him, or utter a word. Now, with him out of sight, she wanted to scream, scratch at the walls until her fingers bled, rattle the bars of her cage... But her monster wouldn't let her. It was purposeful. Wait and watch, it said. Wait and watch and see. Something is shifting. It could feel it, in its instinctual animality, the first crackling of the storm in the distance. Something was shifting and gathering strength, still remote but no less ominous. Some rumbling tectonic movement that humans had lost the capacity to feel until it was too late.

She paced, watching the jumble of her thoughts rush through her murky consciousness, train cars roaring by in the night, indistinct but vaguely terrifying. Outside, the day was absurdly, abruptly sunny, piercingly blue sky almost drowning out the thin metal mesh on her window, but there, where she paced, darkness floated and pooled around her ankles. She grabbed at her elbows, as if the gesture would help her hold the pieces together. "I'm losing my mind." The thought was so sudden in its perfect clarity that she stopped her pacing, one hand involuntarily rising to cover her mouth in the iconic gesture of shocked surprise. "I really am this time, I am losing it."

Her monster barked some inarticulate but explicit order from behind its ramparts. Hold it together, it seemed to say. She nodded slowly, in acknowledgement of the directive. She would, for as long as it was possible, and then... Well, she'd burn that bridge when she crossed it.

She was torn from her thoughts by the creaking of the office door. There they were, Emma Swan, all knee-high leather and blond ringlets, and Gold, a dark and angular shadow in the sheriff's wake.

" - I will give you two a few moments, but then I expect compliance." Emma Swan looked pointedly at the pawn broker, walked over to the desk to collect a stack of papers, stuffed them in a folder and left the room, closing the door shut. Ella didn't think that Sheriff Swan was the eavesdropping type, but she physically felt her presence lurking behind the thin walls. No eavesdropping, but not taking any risks, either.

She watched him approach the cell gingerly, his limp slightly more pronounced, and yet, underneath the brittle set of his shoulders, there was something else, a coiled energy, as if some deeply buried dark part of him was somehow enjoying itself. She shuddered at the thought. But the eyes that looked at her were the familiar liquid brown of well-steeped tea, and the look of concern on his features chased away the momentary illusion that underneath the brown glinted the speckled golden eye of another.

She released a shuddering breath and stepped towards the bars, at the same time as he breached the distance between them. She wanted to ask questions, to sort truth from lies, to have him confirm that the newspaper article was just another elaborate defamation. She had rehearsed all of it in her head a million times over, millions of conversation scenarios shuffled and reshuffled, but now the rehearsed words scattered like beads, and some deeper, more primordial question was clawing its way to the surface. They embraced awkwardly at first, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of her dress, but she cared little, drowning in the scent of incense and burning juniper, her face buried against his chest. He was stroking her hair lightly, as if afraid to scare off some shy exotic creature.

" - What have you done?" she heard herself asking, and raised her head to meet his gaze.

He gave her a tight smile, but averted his eyes, then cupped her face with both hands and softly kissed her forehead.

" - Don't you worry, love. It will be alright."

And just then, as her gaze traced the deep worry lines etched into his face, she knew with complete certainty that it wouldn't, that from now on nothing would be 'alright' anymore, and that it had been a monumental lapse of judgment on her part to think it ever would be. Her sudden release from the mental ward had been carefully calculated. She was a pawn on a chess field, a piece to be moved at will, although perhaps, just like her, chess pieces thought that their movements were voluntary. Her fingers curled against his back spasmodically, crumpling the expensive fabric of the suit. She turned her face to catch his gaze, trying to see past their golden brown hue to the secrets hidden beneath. "What have you done?" she whispered again, suddenly feeling that there wasn't enough of her, or maybe not enough of him, and certainly not enough of them, in combination, heat rushing through her frozen limbs, constricting her chest, pooling in her lower abdomen and mixing perversely with the feeling of sickening horror that hadn't left her since that morning. She made a small strangled sound, and, as if responding to her inarticulate anguish, he pressed her tighter against him, the cold metal of the bars digging into her skin, his hands burrowing into her hair, his face suddenly inches from hers, and his expression too complex to read - a strange mix of guilt, longing, and something altogether primitive and powerful, which her monster recognized perfectly but couldn't be bothered to name for its obviousness.

With a visible effort, he forced himself to answer her question, and the voice came out strangely thick and choked up.

" - Too many things, I'm afraid." He stayed quiet for a few seconds. "But you will be alright, that is what matters." He paused again, and Ella listened to the sound of her own blood pulsing in her ears. "I will make arrangements. You will be safe." He smiled, a little sadly, and she realized with a feeling of sinking horror that he was saying his goodbyes.

Something inside her snagged, ripped, and started unfurling, the internal structures folding like a castle of cards. Suddenly, her own questions and role in the elaborate charade that had ended in her landing in jail seemed irrelevant, and she felt small and airborne against her will, the vertigo of a pawn moved by the hand of an invisible giant, too remote and too other to contemplate or comprehend. Then, he leaned into her, as much as the bars between them permitted, and pressed his lips against hers, a soft gasp escaping him at the urgency of her response.

This is terribly wrong, Ella thought dimly. A blinding pain pierced her head, but it was gone before she could fully register it, leaving in its wake a feeling of something softening and finally cracking, like thin spring ice over a stream. Odd images and fragments were rising from the depths, a tidal wave of absurd memories that were her own and not her own, impossible, yet undeniable in their realness. Castle ramparts, the dark outlines of trebuchets against the piercingly blue dusk sky, sturdy women with muscled forearms washing endless streams of laundry in the river and singing rowdy songs about the silliness of men, the smell of lye soap, hot summer hay, and fresh sweat. Red velvet and gold drapes, always a little too gaudy for her taste, closed over the tall mica glass panes. A portly man with sad worried eyes, aging but still in good form leans over an oak dining table, chin propped on a fist, twirling a wine goblet pensively as he studies a map. He absentmindedly feeds scraps of his dinner to the hound at his feet.

Another image, a dark haired young man, arrogance spoiling his regular features, his jerkin covered in showy embroidery exits the hall after the conclusion of his negotiations with the lord of the castle. A girl, sixteen or seventeen stands awkwardly, her eyes lowered to the floor as he utters rehearsed words about his devotion to her – she gets the gist, but the details escape her. Later, the same young man, a dark outline backlit against the moonlight filtering through a window, the quiet rumble of guests and servants downstairs – she no longer remembers the ball, only this particular moment in the dark hallway where he presses the girl into the wall, sour wine on his breath and his hands clammy and cold, insinuating themselves under her clothes. She tries to protest, push him away, but it doesn't stop him. Someone coughs loudly and deliberately at the other end of the hallway – a guest perhaps, she can't see. The young man gives her backside a painful pinch and stumbles off. There is no kindness in his advances, and for the first time she understands that she is trapped.

The face of an old maid, white hair twisted in a high bun, emerges from the gloom and leans over her. The woman is more a companion than a helper – since the death of her mother, the girl more or less runs the household, and there are few idle hands in the castle, her father is no longer able to afford them. The old woman brings candles to the bedroom, wipes tears from her ward's face with a handkerchief washed so often it has lost all color. She remembers the look on the woman's face – pity and resignation – her voice cracked and papery with age: that is the way of the lords, child. The girl on the bed shakes with uncontrollable sobs, pulls the blanket tighter around her, the old maid pats her hair. "You are his to claim, child, better bear it and keep your chin high." With time, she learns to do so – keep her chin high, at least. She never learns to bear it.

Long dusty halls of gray stone fighting a losing battle against cobwebs as the castle becomes deserted of its inhabitants, the sky on the horizon painted the ashen red of distant war fires. Screams in the night, piercing and full of terror, abruptly cut off by something even worse – some kind of wet gurgling and mastication. The wail of an inconsolable child, dogs barking hysterically. The distant shouts of men rallying troops.

More and more men fail to return, more women around the small town float aimlessly with the ghostly dead eyes of the recently bereaved. The war is like a tide, a natural disaster one can neither stop nor control, chipping away at the humanity of those left alive until death and horror are business as usual. The girl's father grows desperate, wine on his breath almost constantly now. Still a kind man, but the tragedy of his land melts his backbone like a candle and hardens his heart. His eyes watch, but are blind to the small changes his daughter tries to hide – the shadows under her eyes, the small bruises on her upper arms she covers with her shawl. Sometimes she wears scarves despite the agonizing heat of summer. She too is fighting a battle, too private and too shameful to confess, only the faded eyes of her old maid filling with helpless sympathy at the meaningless plight. As far as the old woman is concerned, the fight is lost before it was begun. She will lose this private war eventually – such is the telos of her position, after all – sooner or later. The girl knows this, but hopes it is later. She is growing a carapace around her soul, a safe place where it cannot be touched or sullied, but she isn't there yet. The shell is still too soft, she needs more time.

Then, it comes back to her. The evening when the stranger with the shrill voice and scaly golden skin comes waltzing into the derelict castle. She watches him with a mix of horror and fascination, one of the most reviled characters of the scary stories her old maid told her when she was a little girl, and that she still pleads her to narrate, even though she'd heard them thousands of times. She watches him glide through the room, his movements equal parts cat and reptile, his shrill laughter jarring yet oddly contagious, and her heart beats faster with the heady mixture of revulsion and curiosity, and something else that is too complex and perhaps too embarrassing to fully consider or admit to herself. Then, he proposes a deal – by all accounts, a perfectly classic one, worthy of her maid's nursery stories. The monster never wants gold. Give me that which you hold most dear, and I will give you what your heart desires. Except this time, she is the object of exchange. The young man protests – she is his, after all – her father protests too, whether because he is genuinely horrified by this creature, or because you can't sell the same cow twice and keep your reputation, she'll never know, though in a brief moment of cruelty, she almost gloats. She speaks up – it is her decision to make, for once, and such occasions present themselves rarely.

His voice, teasing, echoes in her head.

" – It is for forever, dearie…"

Forever, as she discovered later, is a flexible concept, and by the time she learned that lesson, she wished they'd had more time. Later, when the Queen captured her for the first time, she had forever at her disposal – absurdly marked off with little chalk lines on the wall, four vertical bars with one across, repeated at nauseum. Yes, during that forever, she had time to forgive him his act of cowardice. But the Queen was not satisfied, as most queens never are, and took away the last thing she had – her memories.

She opened her eyes, and met his gaze, her heart beating madly. His own eyes widened, as he began to realize what she already knew. She drew him closer and whispered his name against his lips – his real name, something between an incantation and a curse - and before he had time to react or draw back, she kissed him again because trying to explain would take too long, and they were, once again, almost out of time.

" – Belle?" he breathed, after they finally broke away from each other, both of them winded and a little unstable.

She reflected for a few seconds. Her mind no longer maintained sanity and madness on different sides of the divide, and for the first time, she felt whole.

She nodded slowly.

" – That too."


	30. Chapter 30: Outbound

**Getting to the end, folks, so bear with me. A long time ago, I said I'd explain why the DA would be in league with Regina on this one. Well, here it is, as well as some more "plot development." **

**As always, thank you all for the reviews, comments, follows, favs, and so on. This story wouldn't be what it is without all your generous reading and wonderful feedback.**

* * *

**Chapter 30**

**Where Emma discovers that everything has limits**

**_"The first essential for an attack is the will to attack." - Savielly Tartakover, Polish chess Grandmaster_  
**

**_"All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails is a function of power, and not truth." - Friedrich Nietzsche_**

District Attorney Albert Spencer was not a patient man, and he certainly wasn't a man prepared to tolerate the incompetence of others by appealing to some external, supposedly determining context, like cultural differences in social organization, historically specific variations in morality, or any other such dangerously relativistic hogwash. This rigidity of thinking was not due to any specific flaw of his own temperament, of course, but to a particular outlook on life that he had carefully cultivated over the years of dealing with criminal scum, and trying to prevent this godforsaken backwater town from going the way of its rural neighbors by becoming a hotbed of social degeneration, abject poverty, and general depravity and baseness. This outlook that Mr Spencer considered uniquely suited to his station and professional vocation was elegant in its simplicity: it consisted of dividing people into two categories - there were those that deserved to rule, and those that deserved to be ruled. The beauty of such an approach was that it very clearly reflected some type of universal law. One could, after all, find its applications in the animal kingdom, where the chain of predation guaranteed that the weaker, less fit individuals found themselves at the mercy of the stronger ones.

Had Mr Spencer more time for leisurely reading, he could of course point out many a literary ally that would buttress his conviction, and provide fodder for these general postulates. He would also undoubtedly find other takes on the question, ones that diverged sharply from his own position, and even dredged up some pathetic evidence to contest it. But Mr Spencer was not a man who enjoyed hearing the opinions of those who disagreed with his take on things. After all, if they were so profoundly mistaken in their views that they attempted to affirm the polar opposite of what he, himself, believed, this boded poorly for the quality and clarity of their thinking. And why would Mr Spencer wish to waste his limited and highly priced time on such nonsense?

Mr Spencer's worldview had two correlates, both of highly practical value. First, if the person was beneath him in social status, it was likely because this person belonged to that inferior category of people who deserved to be ruled. This, of course, characterized the vast majority. In addition to this rather obvious truth, the economic or social position of such specimens could serve as a reliable indicator of their intellectual and moral worth. In practice, this meant that their moral fiber was of inherently lower quality - how, otherwise, could one explain their inability to climb the ladder of personal progress and carve out for themselves a reasonably respectable place in the social hierarchy? Perhaps, he thought to himself in his more reflexive moments, this was not simply a matter of inherent ability - certainly, those born to wealth and power had more opportunities than those who were not. But weren't those born to wealth and power then also inherently more deserving than the poor dregs squirming below in their filth and dimness? Would not those people be naturally better suited to the responsibilities that their station in life would inevitably demand of them?

No, Mr Spencer thought, watching the short bearded brute straighten up from his appropriately knuckle-dragging crouch by the police cruiser. Any suggestions that this man was anything other than an inferior, disposable, and potentially criminally-minded lout would be patently ridiculous. The caveman's arrival was highly inconvenient and poorly timed, but could perhaps be exploited to Mr Spencer's advantage. After all, one of the inalienable attributes of any mind fit to rule over others was its ability to think strategically.

What Regina's son was doing with the lowly simian janitor was anyone's guess. Henry was not a bad child, if monstrously undisciplined and lackadaisical, but he was certainly of poorer stock than the adoptive mother. Such was the danger of adoption, of course - one could never be sure what one would get. Then again, Mr Spencer suspected that Madam Mayor was herself a bit of a parvenu, but what she lacked in birthright she had made up in chops and sheer ruthlessness - not a bad accomplishment for one of her kind. For whatever it was worth, Regina had not inherited the feeble willpower and questionable analytic skills so typical of her gender. Of course, that made her an anomaly, monstrous almost, but even he had to admit that she was a passably capable ruler. Perhaps profoundly unattractive as a woman, but Mr Spencer wasn't particularly interested. She had attempted seduction before, and although she was not aesthetically displeasing, objectively speaking, the effort had been so transparently self-serving that Mr Spencer quickly made it abundantly clear that her theatrics left him indifferent.

This train of thought brought him to the second point on which he had been musing. Yes, while the majority of humans were simply an amorphous mindless mass, with no will or direction of its own, there was that second, much narrower category - the rulers, those with power, wealth, and the intellectual capital that made them able to act, rather than simply react. It was those people that were truly the makers of history. Now, Mr Spencer was not a naive man. He knew that among this class of the strong, to which he undoubtedly belonged, the struggle for power and dominance was even more acute and pronounced than whatever the lowly masses, in their resentment, could ever dredge up. If one were a scholar of history, which Mr Spencer certainly was, it quickly became apparent that any so called popular revolt was truly organized by someone behind the scenes, and usually a contender for the position of power. It was ridiculous to expect any kind of drive to truly come from the "popular" will, whatever that was. But he was digressing. The point - really, the whole reason he was here in the first place, as opposed to somewhere more to his liking - was the town's pawn broker, and the elaborate operation Madam Mayor had implemented to divest him of his power. Yes, Mr Spencer thought… That Gold character certainly had amassed significant influence, and was showing no signs of weakening his grip. So when Regina approached him with her plan, he only made a show of mocking its inconsistencies and vapid ambition, but was secretly quite pleased, especially since his role would be minimal, while the benefits for him might be quite tangible. After all, power also obeyed the laws of physics: its decrease in one point of the universe signified its increase in another, and he intended to be at the right place and the right time when that redistribution was going to happen. He was even willing to sully his hands, metaphorically speaking, of course, and give it a little push.

Now, faced with the obstinate frown of the janitor, something vaguely bovine to the whole demeanor of him, Mr Spencer felt a wave of exasperation. He had more important things to do than handle this cretin, but he also recognized an opportunity when it presented itself. And so, when he spotted Sheriff Swan exiting the police station, oddly enough with the pawnbroker in tow, Mr Spencer smiled to himself. It appeared that Regina's calculation had misfired, the pawn broker had managed to influence the course of events in a new direction, although Mr Spencer could not fathom what could have swayed the Sheriff off her trail. So perhaps their little security measure was not excessive after all, except that now a scapegoat had landed into his lap. However, it would certainly not do to alert Ms Swan to the alarming fact that someone had fiddled with her car before she and the pawn broker got in and drove off. This could be brought up later, when both of them were finally dispensed with. Yes indeed, Mr Spencer thought. Unforeseen as this new development was, it could not have been more fortuitous if he had consciously planned it.

He felt no remorse for what would likely happen to Emma Swan, and although she was still quite young and strong, she would also be the driver, and Storybrooke was a hilly place. As to Gold, he didn't put much stock in the physical resilience of the diminutive creep. In Mr Spencer's personal opinion, the little man looked rather brittle.

Now, his goal was to scare off the gorilla. He wondered in passing why the janitor was loitering around the police cruiser in the first place, but then decided it was irrelevant. He would be brought to justice later, once a new sheriff was installed, and could take over the investigation. If circumstances required, Mr Spencer would gladly provide and eyewitness account. Perhaps he should give a call to Regina, so she could put appropriate pressure on Dr Whale, or even replace some of the key hospital personnel, just in case the results of the next twenty minutes wouldn't be as... definitive as one might wish. After a brief period of reflection on the topic, he decided against it. It was best to leave things to take their natural course, until there was no choice but to intervene.

Satisfied with his reasoning, Mr Spencer glared at the apish janitor who was clearly devising a plan to make his escape. The man - whose name was Leroy, Mr Spencer recalled - folded his unshaven physiognomy into something vaguely resembling a grin, and extended his hand, clearly by way of explaining what it was that he had been doing on his haunches next to the police cruiser. Mr Spencer eyed the extended appendage suspiciously, and noticed, at the center of the grubby palm, the silver glint of a coin. He looked up at the janitor dismissively, knowing perfectly well what pathetic excuse the caveman would offer next. Sure enough, the janitor was mumbling something about having dropped a quarter, and as luck would have it, he just happened to find it. At that, Mr Spencer directed his most threatening glare at the lout, and achieved the desired effect: the janitor backed away slowly, then turned around and walked briskly in the opposite direction, the Mayor's brat trailing after him with a look of confused annoyance. Albert Spencer considered chasing him off to school, but, after a brief internal struggle, his other, more cautious part, won over. It would be best if he were only minimally present at the scene until the events reached their inevitable conclusion.

* * *

Emma Swan recognized the black overcoat and bald cranium of the district attorney and sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was to deal with the ego-maniacal jerk and whatever craziness rattled between his illustrious ears. Fortunately for everyone concerned, Albert Spencer decided not to grace them with his presence, and she watched him stroll down the sidewalk with all the dignity of an imperial statue. Maybe a pigeon or seagull would shit on him for good measure – unlikely, but one could always hope.

As far as Emma was concerned, one egomaniac per day was enough, thank you very much, and now that she had Gold on her hands, she wasn't too sure what the hell she was supposed to do with him. Especially because she knew with complete certainty that the old weasel was lying. Well, didn't know in the sense that she could prove it in any way, but she _knew_ in that odd part of her that never seemed to be wrong about these things, even when her more conscious mind didn't listen to it. The question remained, however – why on Earth would he fess up to something he didn't do? To save his girlfriend? This just didn't fit the profile of the ruthless town puppet master. The man was as manipulative as they came – probably couldn't pick his teeth without plotting his next move – and this one just seemed so… spontaneous. Unlikely.

Maybe he didn't think she was serious? Was this a way for him to test her authority as a sheriff? Again, didn't fit – for all intents and purposes, he was instrumental in _putting_ her in the sheriff's shoes in the first place, why would he play games now? It wasn't like he was testing her limits – if she didn't know any better, it still looked like the most reasonable explanation was that he was trying to deflect the fire from his … ahem. Object of affection. And if she thought about it, the whole case was extremely bizarre – it was _all_, except for a cheerleader's baton, granted with someone's dried blood and fingerprints on it, a paper trail. And here came the real doozy: there was no body. It all added up nicely, if she focused on the "suspects" – Ella, Gold, what have you. An accident turned homicide, that everyone seemed to know of or at least speculate about, a crazy witness turned suspect, a jaded lover… it all looked convoluted and tough, but on some level, fairly straight forward. Classic, even.

She had been so intent on making an arrest, on solving the puzzle, that she had ignored or forgotten some of her earlier findings… and now that she had 'cracked' the case, it all decided to come back and haunt her. Because, if she switched perspectives, things suddenly stopped adding up. There were images of _some_ body, apparently identified as this Gus Tonner character, that somehow no one was able to locate. She hadn't been sheriff for long, but she knew bodies didn't usually just go 'poof' into thin air. They left traces, usually well documented traces, especially when the person was certifiably dead, and not, say, a missing person. Oh, she'd done her homework, followed up, made the calls. "Body claimed by family to be interred in family plot." What plot, what family? And that was it. No address, no phone number, no closest kin listed. She had gone through the town records, and that had been the crowning jewel atop the heap of other weirdness – no Tonners in town. Ever. That name simply didn't exist. Except, whenever she asked, everyone claimed to 'remember' a boy called Gus Tonner _and_ that he came from a rich family. A boy who was local.

Ella French obviously didn't know, or didn't remember – that, at least, was patently obvious. She was a sweet girl, really, but whatever had happened to her, Emma couldn't shake the feeling that someone had disassembled then reassembled her mind, and that, in the end, there had been some "extra parts" left. Archie seemed to vaguely recall something about "the family", but when she had pressed him on it, he got that blank confused look they all seemed to get… and upon turning his office upside down, he just shrugged – no files on Mr Tonner. And Emma wasn't about to ask Madam Mayor and have the charming harpy rub her face in her own incompetence. So, that left her with… well, Gold.

And Gold was the worst of it all. Instead of pointing to the obvious holes in her case, of doing what any good lawyer would do, he went and confessed. Sort of convincingly, within the evidence of the case, at least. So that left her with miserably few options, and she still didn't buy it, so she decided to do the only reasonable thing she could think of – she demanded he show her how it had happened. So here they were, about to embark on a little road trip to go look at "the crime scene." In the woods, alone, with a potential killer. Not one of her brightest moments, but what was she to do? Besides, she was armed, and at least it'd buy her time.

She eyed the man standing next to her, his handcuffed hands resting calmly on his walking cane. He looked strangely serene, as if some great sense of peace had descended upon him. Was this what relieving a guilty conscience looked like? Emma opened the back door for him with a mumbled "watch your head," and he folded himself into the vehicle, compliantly enough. She went around, started the car, and backed out of the parking space.

They drove in silence, both absorbed by their thoughts, and neither willing to engage with the other. The car left the downtown area, tall forest trees thickening around them. They stopped a few times at the lights, Emma registering vaguely that the break pedal had a bit more give than usual, but then she hadn't driven the cruiser for a while, and her Beetle was like a cranky old crone, all coughing fits and creaky resistance, so perhaps she simply didn't remember what it was like to drive a "normal" car. As they approached the fork where a side road snaked off through the back-country, while the main road shot forward, out of Storybrooke and towards the normal world, she flipped on the turn signal, more out of habit than to warn any would-be vehicles. The road was deserted.

They were rolling downhill, but when she gently pressed the break, the pedal under her foot simply sunk into the floor, encountering no traction. She tried again, until she was slamming the pedal with all she had, but the breaks remained unresponsive.

" – Ms Swan, what's going on?"

Emma gritted her teeth, fighting back the hollow terror in the pit of her stomach.

" – Breaks gone, get your seat belt if you haven't."

There was something really wrong with the car – it should have been slowing down, but it just rolled faster, and she knew she wouldn't make the turn. She forced herself to breathe. There were no other cars, no one around, no lights, and the road out of Storybrooke was reasonably straight. She'd let the car roll until it simply ran out of momentum, then pull the emergency break, and crash it into something if she had to. At a lower speed, they'd be fine. And then she'd find whoever was responsible, and tear their head off.

Gold fidgeted in the back, and she felt more than saw him lean forward.

" – Stay back!" she shouted at him, furious that he could be so stupid.

" – You can't take us past the city limit, Ms Swan!" he was shouting back, and she thought she heard terror in his voice.

" – What the hell are you talking about?"

He was nuts. They were all nuts. What was this city limit insanity anyway? She wouldn't decelerate enough until they hit the hill up, some hundred yards past that damn Storybrooke sign, and if they didn't decelerate, then they'd be really, truly screwed. So he could stuff his city limits where they wouldn't be seen, Emma thought, yanking at the emergency break as fear finally gripped her.

Nothing happened.

As the city sign rushed towards them, panic overwhelmed her, as if to her too this city limit had suddenly become something impenetrable. She yanked the steering wheel to the right, and the world careened off its axis, the car spinning like one of those old wooden whirligig toys she remembered seeing once, when she was really young. Trees and road and everything else blurred into a single ribbon of green and gray, and then something jammed into her side of the car with a horrible blast of breaking glass and twisting metal, rattling her teeth, making her eyes feel like they were about to leave their assigned place in their sockets, her tongue and the inside of her nose coating with the sharp taste of copper. She felt her head jerk violently forward and a bit to the side, and the last thought she had, before her forehead met the steering wheel and things went black, was the irrational worry that she had knocked over the Storybrooke sign … again.


	31. Chapter 31: The Devil You Know

**Sorry for the long pause, folks - RL and all that. So without further ado, the next installment. As always, thank you for your comments, reviews, suggestions, and favs. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 31: The Devil you know**

**In which Emma sees the forest for the trees**

**_"And so we stumble at truth's very test_**

**_All we have gained then by our unbelief _**

**_Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, _**

**_For one of faith diversified by doubt: _**

**_We called the chess-board white, - we call it black." _**

**_- Robert Browning_**

Pain was the first sensation. Dull and distant at first, like something percolating up slowly from deep waters. Then, more insistent, a nagging knock on the doors of her unresponsive consciousness, clawing its way to the surface and forcing her to pay attention to her body. It traced the contours of her physical shell, insistently delineating its various appendages. The extremity that she eventually identified as her left arm was throbbing with dull incandescent pulses. She tried to wiggle her fingers, and winced at the pins and needles. Her head was far worse, though. She had never before considered that her skull was really constituted of two halves - the left and the right one - potentially entirely independent from each other. One half screamed bloody murder, and the breakage in symmetry was unnerving. She opened her eyes gingerly, first one then the other, for no good reason other than the left one seemed slow on the uptake and sort of sticky, but she saw no point in further trying to assess the damage in the dark.

With pain came awareness, and with awareness came memory. She knew who she was - that was a fantastic start, as far as she was concerned. She was obviously in a car, and judging by the close proximity of her face to the steering wheel, she'd had an accident. Correction - they'd had an accident, but though she knew she was not alone in the vehicle, more a gut feeling than coherent logical deduction, she was a little fuzzy on the details. For a brief moment of bone-chilling panic, she wondered if she had been driving with Neal. Where was he? Why wasn't he in the passenger seat? Had he gotten out? Then the ghosts receded to that part of her life that she had firmly put behind her, and the details of the present snapped into alignment - Storybrooke, sheriff, the case she'd been working on… And Gold. That was who had been with her.

She stirred, gritting her teeth against the shooting pain. Her elbow, jammed between her body and the door, was in bad shape - at best, a nasty bruise, at worst - a fracture. But the other arm was fine, the legs seemed adequate, and no internal organs appeared to have sustained significant damage. She felt weak, and nauseous, and the world didn't seem to want to lock into place and kept tipping off kilter. A concussion was a firm possibility, so she'd better move herself and get to a hospital. Emma barked a laugh, the sound alien and weirdly choked up to her ears. In case she'd felt like taking a nap, she guessed that was out of the question now.

Careful not to strain the bad arm, she hoisted herself up, pushed with her legs, and inched over towards the passenger seat. Her own door didn't look like it'd ever be opening again. Somewhere half-way her head let her know that rapid movements were ill-advised, so she took a short break and listened to the _whoosh whoosh_ of her pulse drumming in her ears. Slowly, it receded, and she resumed her progression. She considered turning to check on her passenger, but thought better of it. She'd get out of the car, and then she'd deal with it. Whatever _it_ was. She hoped that the silence from the back seat didn't mean that _it_ was irreversible. Not that she liked the guy. But in the sudden space of clarity carved out by the shock, the barriers and shields she had carefully erected around her perception of things had crumbled, and in their place something else was building, a kind of slow icy rage at whoever had done this. That there was a cause that was other than mechanical, she had no doubt. The police cruiser, for all the little use she got out of it, was well maintained, and breaks didn't just randomly give out. Someone had tried to kill her. Or someone had tried to kill the man in the back, and didn't give a rat's ass about what happened to her in the process. Suddenly, even Henry's ramblings about how the whole town was under a curse didn't seem so far fetched - something was massively wrong about this place, no doubt about it. Curse or no curse, there were some seriously evil bastards out there, and she had a pretty good sense of where she should be looking to find them. But that was for later. One thing at a time. First, she had to get out of the car, get the pawnbroker out, and then she'd make a plan.

She finally reached the other side and yanked on the door handle. The door wouldn't budge, and Emma felt a wave of panicked claustrophobia wash over her, until she forced herself to focus, and pushed the door lock to an open position. After that, the door complied, and she was free.

The air outside hit her with its unexpected richness, earthy and crisp, the mushroom smell of rotting leaves, the clear scent of evergreens, rain caught in mossy hollows, the faint tinge of asphalt, and then, jarring, the sharp stink of burned rubber. She maneuvered herself out of the car, leaning on the door frame for stability, and made her way to the rear door. When it didn't open, she snaked her arm over to the safety lock, trying to ignore the wave of panic at seeing the slumped shape in the back. After a few unsuccessful attempts, it yielded, and she yanked it open. With a kind of hysterical amusement, she noted that they had spun sideways into the Storybrooke sign, just as she had suspected, and it didn't look like it had fared any better than on her first run-in with it. For a few ridiculous seconds, she wondered whether the back of the car, now facing away from the town, had made it over the town line. What was it with this town line thing, seriously? Cower in fear, mortals, and tremble in your boots, for you behold the _CITY LIMIT_! She barked another hysterical laugh. This was the second time she crashed on her way out of town, and by the looks of it, in the exact same place. Maybe the general insanity had rubbed off on her - Archie would no doubt have a lovely technical term for it, something about internalizing the unconscious ideological tenets of her social context, or equivalent hogwash.

Bracing herself, and trying to keep her head level, Emma crouched on the ground next to the back door, and leaned in with her whole torso.

" - Gold?" she tried, but received no response. "Gold, are you alright?" she tried again, louder, and waited for a few seconds, but the figure didn't move. The smell of burning rubber - or plastic - was getting stronger, or perhaps she was imagining it, but she didn't want to take the risk, in case the gas tank decided to go up in flames, and send them both on a free tour of hell, all amenities included. She eyed the figure, deliberating how to proceed. "The devil you know" she grumbled to herself, out loud because it was somehow reassuring to hear someone's voice, even if it was her own, and it distracted her from a full-blown "What if?" panic. She inched herself forward, trying to see if he had worn a seat belt, and cursed foully and profusely when she spotted the strip of gray fabric and its buckle hanging limply on the other side of the passenger seat. Gold was slumped against the side, his face turned away, and her eyes landed on his hand, the one closest to her. It lay limp next to his thigh, the fingers relaxed, the palm facing up, and something about the vulnerability of it, for someone whose hands always seemed to be speaking alongside the voice, made her heartbeat accelerate, and panic rise in her throat.

"- Alright, you psychotic dirtbag, I'm going to get you out of here if it kills me." With that bit of pep talk out of the way, she crawled in, having no hope of getting to him from the other side where the back door was seriously dented as well. She grabbed him under the arms, locked her hands over his chest, and carefully, despite the searing pain in her elbow and the feeling that her brain had swollen beyond the capacity of her skull, hoisted him towards the exit. His head rolled against her shoulder, and she noted with a kind of clinical detachment that he had weirdly soft hair for a man. But that was neither here nor there, so she continued her careful progression, dragging him along over the mercifully vinyl-coated seat that didn't offer much resistance.

It felt like ages. But then, suddenly, they were outside, and she was depositing him on the grass at a safe distance from the cruiser, in case it decided that exploding was just what the doctor had ordered. Exhausted from her effort, she plopped herself on the ground, cradling her ominously pulsating elbow against her stomach, and leaned in to examine the pawnbroker. His forehead had a nasty gash that slowly oozed blood, and the left cheekbone looked bruised, red, and swollen.

And he wasn't moving at all.

" — Ok, Gold, don't you even think of croaking on me. I'll come find you in hell, and I swear whatever shit you've rightfully deserved in your afterlife will look like a cake walk in comparison."

She realized she was rambling, but it was better than hearing the forest noises, and she couldn't find his damn pulse, what was it with this man, maybe he didn't have one in the first place? Then she sensed it, faint but steady, and the immense relief of it almost knocked her over for good. She didn't care for the old weasel - never had - but there, in the aftermath of the wreck, he had gone from suspect to unexpected ally, a comrade in arms of sorts, someone who had ended up on the wrong side of the proverbial gun, along with her. And in order to find out who had been pointing it, she needed the pawnbroker alive, kicking, and spewing venom like a king cobra.

She fumbled with her jacket pocket until she located her cell. She had missed a call from Henry, and another from Archie. She looked at the screen in consternation. Under normal circumstances, she would call the police. Of course, that was absurd - she _was_ the police. Who had, as of very recently, almost gotten killed. Apparently, sheriffs in this town didn't have a particularly good life expectancy. She sat next to the body, staring at the phone with a mix of puzzlement and soul-sucking loneliness. Who could she trust? Who was a friend, an ally, and who had gone behind her back, spied on her, and manipulated her into this moment in time, bruised and aching, with an injured passenger lying unconscious on the soggy ground, and no clear sense of why she was here?

She thought of her strange relationships - Mary Margaret and her self-absorbed boy drama, August and his _Storybrooke Savior - "_the greatest hits", her son and the looming shadow of his adoptive mother. She flipped through the numbers, dismissing them one by one. It wasn't just about friends and foes, it was about who could actually help, and who she had a responsibility to protect. She glanced at the man next to her, vaguely befuddled. How ironic that under normal circumstances, for all their mutual dislike, this was the guy she'd typically turn to, or try to bully into answers or assistance.

Gold chose that moment to stir, moaning something inarticulate, and she abandoned the phone to tend to him. She squeezed his shoulder gently.

" — Gold? Gold, are you alright?"

She watched him open his eyes slowly, his gaze focusing on her with visible effort. She didn't like the blank expression for one bit. He tried to speak, but only made a strange croaking sound, then cleared his throat and tried again. He was also attempting to get up, but she shook her head sternly, pressing on his shoulder so he'd stay down.

" - Don't move. You've been in a car accident." She surveyed his face for signs of comprehension. Finding none, she changed strategies. "Do you know who you are? Do you remember what day it is?"

He closed his eyes half way, as if trying to calculate, or remember.

" - I know who I am, yes. Although I'm afraid that I don't quite know who _you_ are."

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

" - Ok. Ok, just hang on."

That had settled it. She flicked through the numbers again and dialed Archie. First, as far as the shrink was concerned, she actually knew first hand the extent of his ability to be duplicitous, and she didn't think there were certain moral lines he'd ever cross. Again, the devil you know. Second, this was clearly up his alley.

He picked up on the third ring.

" - Archie, it's Emma."

There was a brief silence on the other end, and she was relieved to hear genuine surprise in his voice when he finally responded. Whatever his real allegiances were, he had no clue about what had happened.

" – Ms. Swan? Ms. Swan, is everything alright? You sound… odd. Is something the matter with Henry?"

She exhaled loudly, and quickly proceeded.

" - Henry's fine. Archie, I need your help." She described what happened in broad brush strokes, leaving out the stuff about Ms French, and Gold's confession. All Archie needed to know was that they had been in an accident, and that Gold seemed to be suffering from memory loss. She heard the shrink mumble something about shock, head trauma, and some altogether incomprehensible gibberish which she filtered out.

" – Ms. Swan, you should call the hospital. This can be very serious, and I don't have the medical skills or equipment to conduct a proper examination." He hesitated, as if there was something on his mind, and he was wavering between 'fessing up or not. Emma fidgeted in frustration at the pauses. The shock was subsiding, and whatever numbing chemicals her brain had produced were wearing off, the pain becoming more and more insistent.

" - Archie, listen, I'll explain later, but I need you to come get us. You can drive us to the hospital then, but I don't want to call an ambulance. I need…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I don't want any extra attention on this one."

There was a very long pause on the other side.

" - Ms Swan, you know I don't drive, but I might be able to help you. I have… an unexpected client whose case might be relevant to your situation. I'm bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, so I can't reveal the details, but…" He cleared his throat, and resumed more rapidly. "Emma, I think we were wrong about everything, in which case, this almost cost you your life. And Gold's. We will take my client's car. Where can we find you?"

Alarm bells went off, but she had already committed herself to this course of action, and it was too late to back out. All she could do was to try to anticipate the danger.

" - Who is your client, Archie?"

" - I'm not sure you've met. His name is Jefferson."

Emma growled something vaguely unflattering - the guy was an absolute nut case. Years of therapy with Archie wouldn't fix that one. But what choice did she have? Calling an ambulance would no doubt alert Madam Mayor - and she had no doubt the harpy was behind it all. She had no other enemies who were either cunning enough, or crazy enough to implement anything like this. And besides, as far as she could tell, Regina and Gold had a falling out, so nothing was out of the question.

" - Do it" she finally said, and quickly explained where they were. After a clipped goodbye, she hung up.

She turned to check on the pawnbroker. He was trying to sit up, moving slowly like a man under water, but she figured that if he was moving about, then at least things were in relative working order. She helped him prop his back against a tree trunk. The wound in his forehead was still bleeding - unsurprisingly, since scalp wounds tended towards the spectacular. She lightly touched her own forehead, and it immediately protested. At least her own skull felt more like it had a welt, rather than a hole – her head had bounced against the rubber of the steering wheel, and unpleasant as it was, it had amortized the impact. She wasn't bleeding, at least. How's that for a silver lining?

She went through her pockets and came away with an unopened pack of paper tissues, which she had taken to carrying around, in case Henry and his runny nose were in the vicinity. She opened it, extracted a tissue, and wiped at the blood on the man's forehead, careful not to touch the open wound.

" - How did this happen? And where exactly were we going?"

His voice had become steadier, which was a good sign. There was even an element of his usual caustic scorn disguised under a thin veneer of politeness, which was even better.

" - It happened, Mr Gold, because someone had screwed around with the breaks on the police cruiser. Now, who did you piss off this time that they wanted you wrapped around a tree?"

" - I think you are assuming that I was the target. It could just as easily have been you."

She had to remind herself not to smack him atop the head. But, on the upside, he was quickly returning to being a jerk. This boded well for his health.

" - Make yourself comfortable, help is on the way."

She'd let Archie deal with him. Right now, since the car didn't look like it was in immediate danger of blowing up, she'd take a look. Perhaps there were some clues left behind. Whoever did this, she'd find them. And this time, it'd be full on war.

* * *

**You'll get Jeff's POV next, since we haven't heard from him in a while.**


	32. Chapter 32: Grave Matters

**As promised, much of this is the Hatter's POV. As always, thank you for reading and commenting - you all drive this story forward, so keep at it =)**

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**Chapter 32**

**Where everything is a language game**

**"Chess is not like life... it has rules!" **  
_**Mark Pasternak**_

Gravediggers were funny creatures, the Hatter reflected. For all that time they spent in Death's company, they were so blissfully oblivious to the soft knocking of their own mortality, willfully ignoring it as if it were an old lover they had grown bored with. One would think that their activities would bestow upon them a certain awareness inaccessible to their luckier brethren, but Death was ever the uninvited, if intimate guest.

Certainly, the man he watched was not a proper Gravedigger, or, rather, it had been more of a hobby than a trade, but it took little effort to summon the memory of fresh earth and stale blood staining his fingers. Now, his hands were clean, immaculate short fingernails drumming against the shining chrome of the hospital gurney, but the Hatter wasn't fooled. Considering the amount of alcohol the Gravedigger imbibed on a regular basis, there was something inside him he wished disinfected. Yet, some stains are so recalcitrant that no amount of scrubbing would stop the contagion. Besides, the Hatter suspected that the fire water had long since lost its sanitizing function, and was now applied as an analgesic.

In his abundant free time woven into the mesh of his cage, he read, and so had the chance to expand his understanding of the plane where their prison was located. The people of this world believed in minuscule particles, little beings that came into the body with breath, food, and other substances, and elected residence there, progressively destroying their new abode. Much like the people of this world insisted in occupying every space they could get to, abandoning it when they had made it unlivable. The Hatter had discovered that the places of healing in this world had to be carefully purged not only of these microbes, but also of any improper relations, and since neither he nor his companion could claim kinship to the patients they had brought, they were left discarded in the limbo of the waiting room.

The Joker had been wheeled away behind the doors through which those who lacked the proper uniform could not pass, although the Hatter doubted that whatever was on the other side of those doors could help him. If there really were holes in his mind, he would fall in, as they all did. The Swan Princess had also been taken away, but he was grateful for the respite. She wanted words, and she wanted them strung together in elaborate garlands, a thread of sense to hang on to in the labyrinth of lies where she was lost. Of course, she didn't realize that dispelling the illusion was as simple as opening her eyes, but what was seen once could never be unseen, so he refused to blame her. Sometimes, all one had to do to bind others was to keep them blinded, or blindfolded – unseeing and unsure of the cards they were holding – and queens knew how to keep their cards close to their chest, where no heart was beating.

Of course, light gave no freedom either, only a cruel awareness of one's shackles. He wished it on no one.

He mulled over how he would arrange his words once the Swan Princess requested them. That one too would be a Queen some day, he reminded himself, with all that it entailed. For now she was nothing but an Ugly Duckling, although neither ugly, nor treading water. For now, words was all he had, and all she would ask for: not his head, not his heart, not other disposable parts to be grafted elsewhere by the Gravedigger. And words, at least, he had in ample supply. So why were some words so difficult to give away? Was it because they lost their value as soon as they passed his lips? Because they would always be measured against other words – his words against those of the Bitch of Spades, those of the former King of Diamonds, those of the other sixes supporting the card castle? Was it because his words were never his _alone_? He wanted to toss them down like trump cards as soon as they passed his lips: confident, an ace – or five of them – up his sleeve. Alas, the game hadn't been rigged in his favor, and the deck of words was the repository of innumerable things.

He wondered briefly whether the Joker had been tossed aside, out of the game, or whether he was the wild card that no one could ever anticipate beyond the fact of its existence and its tendency to show up uninvited, a bit like Death.

His reverie was interrupted by the Gravedigger's voice. It wasn't slurred yet, as the liquid fairy was only in the first movement of her dance, numbing him without yet scrambling his wits. Of course, the Hatter knew that the Gravedigger was never particularly talented at this waltz, and the fairy would eventually dig a sufficiently large hole in his mind to bury him. For now, he was still walking the grave's edge, as he always had.

But the grave was deep, and the edge slippery.

" – Gentlemen? Since you were the ones who accompanied Ms Swan and Mr Gold, you must want an update?"

The Hatter wondered at the Gravedigger's language games. He too had been the Bitch of Spade's lackey, once, long ago, lacquered by her favor, but now only liquored for his trouble. He and the Gravedigger had more in common than the latter remembered, but memories were only more words that they all told themselves, ad infinitum.

" – Dr Whale? Are they alright?"

The Grasshopper knew the secret words of others, and so he too had a kind of power. Even the Gravedigger feared him, because he could never quite remember which words he had given away, and which ones he had kept to himself. Words, the Hatter knew, could always be spun into a butterfly net, but the Grasshopper was not a spider, and was not in the business of catching other insects – he just wanted to make them sing.

" – Ms Swan will be fine. She has a slight concussion, and a contusion of the elbow joint. She needs bed rest and a mild pain killer, but fortunately nothing was broken. She will be on her feet in no time, but I'd like to keep her under observation overnight, on account of the concussion."

The Gravedigger fell silent, and, as usual, the words left unsaid carried more weight.

" – And Mr. Gold?"

The Hatter watched the man rub his hands together nervously, the same way he had seen him do many times, in another when and where.

" – He…" Something sinister fluttered across the Gravedigger's face, but the Hatter knew that the mind was a bottomless well, the home of ten thousand monsters. He wasn't sure which creature had emerged to the surface, nor did he particularly care.

" - Well." The man's hand twitched, as if he were looking for something to grasp, something circular. The wooden handle of a spade, perhaps, or a whiskey glass. Not having found it, he interlaced his fingers over his lap, and cracked his knuckles.

" – Physically, he's alright. He needed a few stitches, mostly to minimize the scaring. There is no intracranial hemorrhage, which is what we were worried about. But that doesn't explain…"

" – The memory loss?" the Grasshopper suggested, and the Gravedigger acquiesced with a nod.

" – Might be the shock, but I'm no specialist" he trailed, fingers curling and uncurling, failing to grasp the invisible object.

The Grasshopper was a specialist, but with holes worming their way through his memory, all he had was more words to fill them, and no adequate tool at his disposal.

" – A shovel, perhaps?" the Hatter suggested solicitously, but was met with empty stares that held no comprehension, only his own reflection thrown back at him, concave and distorted.

" – Beg pardon?" the Gravedigger inquired, as if his hands had never born the calluses of digging up dead things. Perhaps, a cursed memory was a blessing. The Hatter shrugged, mostly to the benefit of his interlocutors.

" – A shuffle, Dr. Whale. I'm sure there is a technical term for it, but I have never been good with… terms. Shock sometimes will shuffle people's minds, so they don't remember things they are unable to process. Or so Dr Hopper tells me."

His interlocutors eyed him with alarm. He should do well to keep his words to himself, lest they weave into a noose. The Gravedigger cleared his throat.

" – You can visit Sheriff Swan, if you'd like. She's in 107 C."

" – And Mr Gold?"

The Gravedigger shuffled uncomfortably and the Hatter almost gave in to the irony and smiled, but thought better of it.

" – He's… Well, I don't think he should be having visitors at the moment."

Ah, but the Bitch of Spades had provided instructions? He didn't have a chance to give chase to the thought – the lobby doors opened, and he watched the Crystal Girl rush into the fluorescent lights, the Little Prince on her heels. They were both breathless and wide-eyed, and for a brief moment he contemplated the nature of their similarity – the debris perpetually caught in the wheels of the monstrous mechanism put into motion by others, destined to be ground to nothing, but not before they destroyed the very apparatus that crushed them.

Before they had driven them to the hospital, Ms Swan wanted the Crystal Girl released from her prison, and so they had recruited the Boatman to execute the task, to save time, which to all but the Hatter himself seemed in short supply. He would have gladly given his excess time away, but packaging it presented difficulties. Since the Crystal Girl was now on this side of the bars, the Hatter concluded that the Boatman's mission had been successful.

" – We are here to see Emma and Mr. Gold" the Little Prince threw confidently, and his voice was already bearing the regal cadence of what he would one day become.

Perhaps, the Hatter thought, his respite from the Swan Princess would last longer than his nerve and courage, but before he could reconsider and walk away, back into the shadows from whence he came, the Grasshopper had made retreat impossible.

" – Henry, Ms French… We have to speak with Ms Swan. I'm sure that Dr Whale would not object to Ms French visiting Mr Gold, am I right?"

There was brief hesitation in the Gravedigger's eyes, but he nodded, and the Hatter realized that the Bitch of Spades had left elaborate directions indeed. He watched the Crystal Girl's expression, the girl-child who was no longer a child. She wore a steely mask she must have forged only recently, for he didn't remember seeing it. As if she too now knew words that no-one else could pry from her lips, words to be whispered behind closed doors, in the dark. Secrets upon secrets.

" – Henry, we won't be long. We'll come get you as soon as we're done." The Little Prince nodded.

He too had a secret to tell, the Hatter reminded himself, and so he followed the Grasshopper to their destination.

When they entered, the Swan Princess was sitting cross-legged on her bed, picking at the white elastic bandage that bound her elbow.

" – Emma? How are you feeling?"

He let the Grasshopper talk, and positioned himself by the entrance, leaning against the wall. He and the Swan Princess had a history, after all. Words had been exchanged.

" – Like I crashed a police car, hit my head, and almost got someone else killed in the process. And how was _your_ day, Archie?" She ran her hands through her hair. "Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you. I'm just…"

" – It's Ok, Emma. I understand."

The Hatter watched her nod, then her eyes fell on him, and the stare was heavy.

" – I also haven't thanked either of you. You were there when I needed help. I appreciate that."

The Grasshopper smiled, the expression fitting askance on his sad face, and turned to the Hatter.

" – Perhaps you might need a moment to chat. I'll go get a soda, if you don't mind."

He was out of the door before the Hatter could stop him.

* * *

Emma surveyed the creep without much enthusiasm. The only small comfort was that he looked as skittish as she felt. She wasn't sure what to make of him, but on the other hand, she wasn't quite sure what to make of anything these days. As one of her foster mothers liked to say, an eternity ago, it all would come out in the wash. And for better or for worse – and probably for worse – he had been there when she was in trouble. Besides, he had something to tell her, according to Archie, and anything that would get her closer to understanding who had set her up was fair game.

By the look of him, he wasn't going to speak first, so she would have to get it out of him. If that was the game he wanted to play, she'd go along with it.

" – Jefferson."

" – Ms Swan."

Well, that was a great start.

" – Archie said you knew something. Care to share?"

He looked away, somewhere past the ceiling, and Emma frowned. There was something about him that was almost fascinating, and a part of her recognized perfectly what that something was. She squished the feeling before it could fully rear its ugly head. What was it with her and broken men?

" – We all know something, Ms Swan. The question is whether that knowledge will lead you anywhere outside of what you already know."

She stared at him for a few seconds, and then gave in to the impulse and rolled her eyes with a groan.

" – Do you _have_ to speak in riddles?"

" – I don't _have_ to speak at all."

Games. She hated games. Why could people not be straightforward? Something about her expression must have alerted him to her mood, because he shifted abruptly, suddenly moving closer to where she was sitting, and she made a concerted effort not to shrink back. But he simply pulled up one of the hospital chairs, and lowered himself into it, at the foot of her bed so that now she had to look down at him to meet his gaze.

" – Allow me to tell you a story."

She waved him to continue.

" – What do you think of language, Emma?"

She frowned. She didn't like him using her name, but let it go.

" – That doesn't sound like the start of a story."

" – The best stories always start with a question."

If he was going to sit there and play cat and mouse, she was going to give him a run for his buck.

" – Do you want an answer to that? Or was that rhetorical?"

He seemed to consider that.

" – I would very much like an answer, yes."

She exhaled loudly, hoping that her frustration was not quite as apparent as she felt it.

" – It's what allows us to communicate. Beyond that, I haven't thought about it." She stared at him for a few moments. "Why, what do _you_ think of language?"

He smiled. It illuminated his face and made it almost charming.

" – I think language is a game." He paused, considering. "Do you like games, Ms Swan?"

" – No. And I'm losing my patience with this one."

He nodded, as if he was expecting it.

" – Not all games are played the same way. Some games require patience. Strategy. Careful planning."

" – Is that what you came here to tell me, Jefferson? Is the accident part of a game?"

He smiled again, and this time she didn't shrink away, but leaned forward, maintaining eye contact.

" – If it were part of the game, would it _truly _be an accident?"

She thought about it, and slowly shook her head.

" – Do you mean that it wasn't an accident because it was planned, or do you mean that it wasn't an accident because it's just a game?"

He beamed at her, a bit dementedly, and nodded twice, as if for emphasis.

" – See, Ms Swan! You _do _understand language games. I had thought as much."

" – Jefferson." She looked away, staring at her hands. The left one was slightly swollen, and she figured the bandage was cutting off circulation. "I need to know who did this to me. And to Gold." She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. "I need to understand."

He looked up at her, and for a second she thought he looked wistful.

" – You already know, Ms Swan. But you are not looking at it from the right angle."

She frowned.

" – How so?"

He nodded again, but then his gaze wandered off, as if he was looking for a way to articulate what he was trying to say. Emma suddenly realized that all the stalling and riddles were a sign of something else – he wasn't playing games, and he wasn't just crazy. She knew that look very well. The man was scared out of his wits. This wasn't easy for him, and as soon as she realized it, she decided it was fine to lower her defenses a bit. As if her slight change in posture had spurred him on, he met her gaze again, and exhaled - not loudly, but she noticed.

" – You are looking for emotions. You are asking who would hurt others in such manner? Who would wish someone's unhappiness to such an extent? You already know the answer to that question, but it is the wrong question."

" – And what is the right question?"

He paused.

" – The right question is _why._" He leaned forward. "Do you know much about modern physics, Emma?"

" – Excuse me?"

" – Physics. A fine endeavor by all accounts. At various times this world had decided it knew the secrets to how it functioned. But then, a new theory would be put forth. For the longest time, people thought that everything worked the same, at every scale. Then they pried further and further into the small scale of things, and realized that their understandings no longer held. Do you understand?"

She shook her head.

" – No."

" – You, me, this bed, the floor, Dr Hopper, the soda he is drinking, Mr Gold down the hallway, your son in the lobby – we are all connected. _Time_ is connected, everywhere, all at once. _Everything_ is connected. But we cannot understand the complexity of it all." He leaned in. "There are many worlds besides this one, Ms Swan. But that isn't what matters. What matters is that in order to control a world, at any scale, you must reduce its complexity enough that you can look at it. _See _it. Do you understand?"

" – I'm not sure I do."

He exhaled and fidgeted, his frustration increasing visibly.

" – To control others – to control a world - you must plan for every contingency. For every _accident._"

She waited for him to continue.

" – How do you do that, Ms Swan? Think of it as… an experiment. That is what it's called in this world, I believe."

Emma rubbed her head, which was beginning to throb alarmingly. He was talking about more than the particulars of the last day's events, he was trying to say something more general about Storybrooke, she guessed. And he was beating around the bush, because he was scared. In a weird way, it made sense. Suddenly, things began to fall into place. The town wasn't just isolated, it was… It was wrong. She had dismissed her original hunch about her investigation because she had felt that the scale of conspiracy it would require was simply impossible. No one was capable of doing something like this. But then again, maybe Jefferson was right, she hadn't been asking the right question. Not _who_, not _how_, but _why_. Motive.

" – This place… is an experiment, yes?"

The man nodded, his long fingers interlaced under his chin, as if in prayer.

" – A miniature universe where the same rules no longer apply."

" – And the right question to ask would be…" She thought, her head throbbing, but she tried to pay it no attention, focusing instead on the thought. It was there, almost within reach, just beneath her fingertips. She forced herself to continue, anchoring herself to the words as if they were a life boat.

" - … the right question is about the purpose of this… experiment, as you call it?"

He nodded, his green eyes boring into her intently. He wanted her to make the leap, take that final step, but Emma hesitated. It was just… Well, it was just too damn nuts. Her brain simply couldn't accept it. This stuff the kid always talked about, and August… this stuff about _magic_, that was just too alien, too batty to be real. But Jefferson wasn't pushing her in that direction, he was pushing her to suspend disbelief, sure, but within conditions she could almost accept.

Her head felt like it would cleave in half, so she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with index and forefinger.

" – Don't try to solve it all at once, Emma. Too many holes to fall in. Just this one problem, think about your… case."

Her case. The trail of photographs, of newspaper articles, a mysterious death with an absent body, only traces of it left. A murder weapon that was also just a trace. And people talking, as if their gossip was a snowball that gathered mass as it rolled down the hill. The weird hesitations from people she interrogated, then the sudden flash of memory, as if it wasn't there at all until she _suggested_ it. Convincing traces, but they were nothing but footprints in the sand – it was pure instinct to assume that they had been left by someone walking the trail, but what if that hadn't been the case? What if the person walking wasn't walking forward but backwards, for example?

She had always known things. She _knew_ things, yes, but she didn't trust the knowledge. But that was a lie too. She didn't trust _herself_ or what that knowing might suggest about her. And even now, a small panicked voice in her head screamed and thrashed around, pleading with her to stop, to chase this man out of her room, to clamp her hands on her ears and sing "lalala" until it all went away.

She wanted to give in to that voice. To make it all go away, to hit the reset button.

Instead, Emma met the man's gaze, fastening herself to it before the little voice of reason could push her back into the narrow confines of her own knowledge. What had he said? Would his knowledge take her beyond what she already knew? And then, the unasked, yet presupposed question. If it didn't, could she deal with it?

" – You came to tell me something, Jefferson." She was forcing the words out, but as she heard her own voice, she felt relief. That, and a good deal of fear, but this wasn't the first time in her life she was afraid. Nor would it be the last.

The man stared at her, transfixed.

" – In your own words, Jefferson. I'll listen."

After a pause that felt like a small eternity, he nodded slowly.

" – Then my words you shall have, Sheriff Swan."

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**Rumbelle next**


	33. Chapter 33: Lost and Found

**Sorry for the long hiatus. Life's been crazy, but I finally managed to carve out some time to continue this story. As always, thank you for comments, reviews, and feedback.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 33: Lost and Found**

**"A sacrifice is best refuted by accepting it." –Wilhelm Steinitz, founder of the positional school in chess.**

Belle stood in front of the closed door, staring at it with a kind of bovine senselessness that was equal parts terror and incomprehension. She was plagued by a nagging, irritating feeling of déja-vu. The Fates had the maddening tendency to rehash their teachings, until the dim-witted pupil finally grasped the main argument, or died trying. But this day had already been inhumanly long, as if designed for a creature for whom time held no relevance, and the more cowardly part of her simply wanted to go to sleep. The _real _her, the part she had locked behind the fence for months or years, simply bowed its head in reluctant acquiescence to a lesson not yet comprehended.

Last time she had been in this hospital was to visit her father, and she had stood in front of a door much like this one, for all hospital doors were the same, even though what they hid was always just slightly different, but no less tragic. Once she opened it, there would be no turning back. There would be no unlearning the prosaic tragedy of their trajectories, the collision course that inevitably resulted in one of them losing what the other gained. The zero sum game of the universe's infinitely wicked sense of humor would likely mean that, just as she had regained her full self, he had potentially lost his.

She brought her hands to her chest, a gesture somewhere between prayer and hand-wringing, as if the inane motion would protect her from what was to come, and stared at the boring institutional ceiling, foam tiles in indifferent grays hiding the ventilation system and whatever other technological bowels guaranteed the hospital's routine functioning. But there was nothing routine to this moment of vacillation. With an effort, she recalled herself to the present. Perhaps "Ella" had been on the side of shy and tentative, but her new incorporated self, formerly known as "Belle," but now so much more complicated, was not one for endless hesitations. She forcefully exhaled through her nose, firmly grasped the door handle, and, before she could think better of it, entered the room.

The narrow space, about half the size of a tramway car and twice as narrow, held little hospital paraphernalia, and she felt vaguely grateful. The life maintenance machines would have been unsettling, their plastic tentacles a reminder of the frailty of human flesh, so much more so with someone like _him_, a being she remembered as practically indestructible, yet no less vulnerable for it. She surveyed the small space with the critical eye of someone who made the best of whatever home she inhabited. Then her gaze settled on the figure on the bed, and her lungs suddenly felt short of air.

He looked neither frail nor badly injured, which is what she had half-expected, after Leroy's muddled explanation of what had happened to Emma and the police cruiser. He sat on the bed upright, legs swung to one side, a white surgical bandage on his forehead the sole index of his ordeal. He had traded his green hospital garb, now discarded on a chair, for suit trousers and a button-up shirt, as if he was ready to walk out and leave the house of death behind him. She registered all of this dimly, but, all in all, it was nothing more than background noise, nothing relevant in comparison to the expression on his face.

He looked up, and Belle found herself confronted with a mask of reserved indifference. She grasped her elbows to keep herself from crumbling, and shivered involuntarily, hating herself for the weakness of it. He looked at her, his tea-colored eyes so much darker in the harsh fluorescent glow, and she traced the worn etchings on his face with a feeling of sudden doubling, as if, as she surveyed him, she could see herself reflected back, a lost soul, somewhere between youth and whatever came after, too old for naivety and too young for true wisdom.

" – Ms French? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

The patronymic reminder felt like a slap. She searched his face for answers, but found nothing but a cold façade, the timeless edifice of ramparts upon ramparts, masks beneath masks that revealed nothing of their previous intimacy.

She gathered the scarce remains of her wits, and decided that, faced with the choice of breaking into desperate sobs or moving forward with grim determination, she preferred the latter.

" – To visit with you, of course."

She forced herself to stand straight, as if the minute curvature of her spine would somehow make a difference.

" – And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

She peered into his face, and though the layers of masks still remained, she thought she heard something underneath the polite aloofness. Her gaze quickly traveled to the bed stand, where, somehow unsurprisingly, a stack of Daily Mirrors formed a small defense tower. What would a man who had lost his memory and experienced himself as nothing more than a cardboard cut-out make of them, she wondered.

" – Because you and I have a history."

The words came easily, and the haunting sense of déja-vu settled around her shoulders like a heavy cloak. They had this conversation before, and would perhaps have it again, until the Fates decided that the lesson had been learned.

He showed no sign of understanding the layered reference, his face still shuttered, none of the habitual mix of wry amusement and tenderness that characterized their usual banter seeping through. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Belle wondered whether her only option was to turn on her heels and rush out of the room. Instead, she grasped the fabric of her dress through the pockets of her cardigan, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her thighs and letting the pain clear her thoughts. She had never been one to run, and she would not start now.

" – Histories are good for glossy academic books that no one reads, Ms French. You, of all people, should know that."

She shrugged, even if that small gesture of indifference seemed to take all the energy she had. She forced herself to move to a chair, lifting his hospital garbs discarded there with a casual toss towards the designated bin in a corner.

Once settled, she felt slightly more stable.

" – Histories are what makes us who we are, Mr Gold." She was careful to modulate her voice so that the internal tremor that had started somewhere deep in her chest cavity wouldn't come to inflect her words.

"- And what do you think you and I are, Mr Frech?" He gestured to the stack of newspapers. "According to this fine publication, I might be tempted to assume that you are just another opportunist coming along for her share of the profit. Its literary faults notwithstanding, the paper gets one thing right. You do realize that money and power are usually the only motivators worth their salt, don't you?"

He paused, his eyes fixed on her, and she thought she saw something mad and desperate stir beneath the glacial sheath. Belle refused to be dragged into the frigid undertow. But then again, if this was the pace he wanted to set, then she would waltz along.

" – If I had wanted money and power, Mr Gold, would I have not chosen an easier path to obtaining it?" She held his gaze for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he looked away.

_Think_, she told herself. If he had lost his memory, what would he know of their relationship? What sort of picture would the cumulative lies in the Daily Mirror depict?

Finally, he looked up with a humorless chuckle.

" – Ah, I see. "Twue wove," is it? Is that what you are hinting at, Ms French? If that is indeed what you are attempting to suggest, keep in mind that it's a sentiment so allegedly pure it takes no logical considerations into account. From that perspective, wouldn't you say that it is an aberration, really? A form of madness? And here you are, claiming, if I understand you correctly, that nothing more pragmatic entered your reasoning. Will you have me believe that you are insane, or should I simply assume that, like most, you are a liar?"

Belle frowned, trying to keep her rising anger and desperation in check. _Think_! But since she had regained her whole self, she was no longer able to rely on the insights of her alienated monster in the same way. Its intuitive knowledge was somehow locked away, and far more difficult to access.

Where was all this bitterness coming from? For someone who had allegedly forgotten everything that had passed between them, what were the stakes of undermining her intent? She would have expected confusion, perhaps a guarded form of questioning, but certainly not this vitriolic pronouncement. Something was amiss, and no matter how much she tried to puzzle it out, their conversation simply refused to align itself in any logical manner.

When in doubt, grab the bull by the horns, she decided.

" – Do you remember nothing?"

He shrugged and averted his eyes, apparently considering something.

" – What is there to remember, really? According to the collective history of this town, you and I had an affair, which resulted in my being accused of murder, and you being institutionalized. Since I don't recall your involvement, or mine, for that matter, all I have to go on is what others tell me." He paused, and exhaled forcefully, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. "Under the circumstances, wouldn't you agree that the best thing you and I can do is stay away from each other?"

Belle felt her eyes well up with tears, words caught in her throat until she was choking on them. How could this conversation be happening? She stared at him, doubts clawing at her mind and threatening to scratch apart her hard-earned sanity. Who was this man, and had she ever truly known or understood him? The questions chased each other around, a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts and emotions making the world teeter at the edge of an unpleasant void where nothing was as it seemed. Finally, she caught sight of a patch of stability in the chaos. Their kiss had broken her own amnesia. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but didn't doubt that it meant something about their connection, the same ways that their first kiss, all those years ago, had almost broken his curse. "True love can break any curse" – she recalled. Then again, what exactly was true love in the first place? What had made that one kiss between them efficacious, but not all the others? She searched his face for an answer, but came up with nothing.

" – I am tired, Ms French." He was again avoiding her gaze. "It was kind of you to visit."

It didn't take excessive intellectual prowess to realize he was asking her to leave. She shot from her seat like a puppet on strings. Before her emotions could spill out any further, she whirled on her heels, and headed towards the door. She thought she heard a shuddering inhalation behind her, but didn't turn to check. It could have been the air conditioner, or her mind playing tricks on her.

She opened the door, her mind numb and empty, her only coherent thought that she needed to escape the hospital and regroup, when she heard the sharp clicking of high heels against the tiled floor. She followed the sound with her eyes, and, sure enough, the Queen turned a corner, and was marching down the hallway in her direction, her impeccably styled hair and black business suit making her look like a spruced up and modernized Grim Reaper. Belle didn't have any doubts of where she was headed.

There was no avoiding Madam Mayor if Belle wanted to get out of the hospital, so she set off confidently towards the exit.

" – Ms French? I didn't expect you to be wandering outside of your jail cell. What are you doing here?"

The Queen barred her passage, and Belle realized that at this point, the confrontation was inevitable. She felt the woman's gaze on her face, and noticed a slight twitch of the perfectly painted lips. The smile was self-satisfied, and by no means friendly, and Belle logically concluded that the aftereffects of her encounter with Rumplestiltskin had left a trace.

" – I am no longer under arrest, Madam Mayor. If you have any questions, you should probably speak to Sheriff Swan."

The Queen took a step forward, but Belle refused to back away, despite feeling crowded, enveloped in a cloud of aggressive perfume that emanated from the other woman. Insofar as chemical warfare was concerned, Madam Mayor seemed to prefer a combination of "woody" and "spicy" that was a kind of unholy mixture of sandalwood and rose water, with a distinct note of something harsh and suspiciously reminiscent of moth balls.

" – Enjoy your freedom while you can, Ms French. It is my understanding that you won't be able to hide behind Mr Gold's back from now on." She smiled unpleasantly. "I predict you will be behind bars – or worse – in no time."

The Queen stepped around her, and clicked away towards Mr Gold's room. Belle shook off the stupor, balled her hands into fists, and set off in the opposite direction.

"_We'll see,_" she muttered under her breath, anger overriding exhaustion and propelling her forward.

She had allies. It was simply a question of uniting her forces.

She would not give up so easily.

* * *

**Voila - Regina next.**


	34. Chapter 34: The Best Laid Plans

**Ok, folks. Didn't want to leave you in limbo for too long. Between that and being stuck with the flu, the universe has conspired to keep me writing, I guess.**

**As always, thank you everyone for your reviews and feedback. I hope Regina provides a bit of a break from the angst ;)**

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**Chapter 34: The Best Laid Plans**

**"_There is not a single true chess-player in the world whose heart does not beat faster at the mere sound of such long beloved and familiar words as 'gambit games'." – David Bronstein_**

Regina turned around, and watched the little pest hurry away towards the elevator. Judging by the dejected cast of the girl's shoulders, the conversation with her precious imp had not been to her liking.

Marvelous. This meant that her plan, despite having been partially derailed by the thrice-bedamned Sheriff Swan, could still be salvaged.

When the former King George proposed to sabotage the sheriff's car, she had initially been reticent. It was, at best, an emergency measure, and one that had originally felt like overkill, so to speak. Her entire plan had been so long in the making, and so carefully implemented that she didn't see where it could go wrong. As far as Regina was concerned, she already had maneuvered Gold into a double-check, and the check-mate would shortly follow. Getting the "tableaus" made, getting the Daily Mirror to consistently sustain the level of scandal, planting the evidence, and making sure the lab results would corroborate it had taken time, certainly, but in a sense, it had been the easy part. It had required careful planning and some arm-twisting, but time and unlimited influence were two things she had in ample supply.

As usual, it was the human factor that created problems.

She remained optimistic, however. From endgame to game over, it was just a matter of time.

It was lovely to see her long-term plan finally beginning to bear fruit. Originally, when she got her hands on the little pest, she knew she'd be useful in some way. And once it had become clear that Emma Swan was here to stay, and Gold had gone behind Regina's back and supported the blonde's bid for sheriff, she had the brilliant insight that she might be able to kill two birds with one stone. She had considered two possible outcomes for her scheme. In the first scenario, Gold lost his "queen," who would be taken out of Storybrooke by Emma Swan, and, provided the curse held, neither would be able to find their way back. That scenario had quite a bit of potential, Regina thought. Her primary goal would have been achieved, and Emma Swan would be at last out of the picture. As for the imp - poor dear – he would be heart-broken and desperate, and therefore just might get sloppy and make mistakes. By that point, the Daily Mirror would have ruined his reputation beyond the point of recoverability, so all she had to do was to progressively choke him out of his various financial assets in town. The old spider had accumulated too much power as it was. A few promises to redistribute the wealth among her closest friends and allies, and everyone happily fell in line and focused on the task at hand. Without his magic, and without his money and influence, he would be nothing more than an aging antique dealer, fussing over baubles like a demented dragon that didn't have the decency of going extinct along with its other brethren.

Alternatively – and this Regina had thought was an unlikely, but irresistible gambit – he would take the fall for his little pet. She had forged the transfer documents to Ella French's name, not particularly confident that Gold would be able or willing to do anything about it. She had underestimated him, as it turned out. Cora had been right, she'd give her that – love really was a weakness. In the end, Gold finally got himself right where she wanted him: behind bars, and eventually, on his way out of town, accompanied by Emma Swan. She had hoped that it would be the end of it: if she understood how the city limit worked, neither would have been able to return. After that, and once Ms French had outlived her usefulness, she would have disposed of her permanently.

She couldn't explain the mechanics of the curse to "Albert Spencer," of course. So the man had proposed that they should make sure that something terrible happened to Emma Swan and her passenger on the road. Superfluous but logical from the scumbag's limited perspective, and she couldn't quite argue against it without giving out too much. So that had been settled. And now she had to reluctantly admit that this had been an excellent idea – who knew that Sheriff Swan, in her infinite capacity for causing problems, would actually doubt the veracity of Gold's confession and proceed to investigate the "crime scene"? Clearly, this is where they were heading before the cruiser's breaks gave out.

The thuggish blonde had become a bottomless source of frustration for Regina, and now the possibility of getting rid of her in an elegant manner was becoming increasingly unlikely. On the upside, the car crash had seemingly jostled something in the imp's brain, and he had, based on Whale's somewhat slurry and disjointed description, lost his pre-curse memories. This was, as far as Regina was concerned, a perfectly acceptable outcome – not ideal, but it would do nicely for now. At this point, the task was to strip Gold of his financial assets on account of impeded mental functioning. If she were lucky, he wouldn't put up too much of a fuss.

She readjusted the folder she was carrying under her arm – the power of attorney and other documents were safely tucked away, and one of her minions among the hospital staff was a public notary. All of this could be done quite quickly, provided the imp cooperated. She had to move fast, however, before he regained his bearings.

Now, the fact that Emma Swan remained the thorn firmly implanted in Regina's side slightly spoiled her jovial mood. She had hoped for a bloodless resolution, something that would not affect Henry. The last thing she needed was for her son to make a martyr out of his biological mother. He was becoming increasingly difficult as it was, and any tragic occurrence involving Emma Swan would just guarantee that he would put her on a pedestal, and knocking her off would not be easy. Regina had wanted to avoid that. It would have been preferable for Emma Swan to simply "never come back," thus feeding Henry's abandonment anxieties, and confirming his worst fears about his biological mother's selfish nature. She didn't want to hurt him on purpose, but better he take the bitter pill now than suffer years of wasted hopes later.

No matter. She didn't get as far as she had by having only one trick up her sleeve. If the more subtle approach hadn't worked, perhaps a blunter instrument would – and she had a few of those at her disposal.

But all of this could wait until she dealt with Gold.

Regina gazed briefly at the door, performed a perfunctory knock, and entered without waiting for a response.

She had expected to find him sprawled in bed and in full swan song mode. She paused at the threshold, assessing the scene, and the fact that Gold was in his civil clothes and standing by the window – with its undoubtedly breath-taking view of the hospital parking lot – set off alarm bells in her mind. She paused, wondering if something was perhaps amiss, or if that incompetent quack of a doctor had been too deep in his cup to provide an accurate report, but reassured herself by recalling the sniveling little mouse scurrying from his room just moments earlier. Gold wouldn't have turned away his precious little pet if he had his wits about him – took him long enough to secure her in the first place.

With that life-affirming thought in mind, Regina settled her face into her best rendition of compassionate care, and advanced into the room.

" – Mr Gold? I am glad to see you are up and about."

She waited for him to turn, and sure enough, he pivoted on his heels, now facing away from the window. She tried to read his expression, but he wasn't giving much away, the old weasel. Then again, the blank face might just be a factor of the memory loss. She recalled that he had been a much more pleasant character when he didn't have his memories from the other side yet – none of the menacing smirks, none of the quiet manipulation. More pleasant, and certainly more docile. Yes, that was a time she wouldn't mind revisiting. Declawed and defanged, he presented little threat. She was even willing to tolerate his existence, under those conditions.

" – Madam Mayor?"

His question seemed tentative, nervous almost, and Regina made a herculean effort to hide her satisfaction.

" – Mr Gold, I'm terribly sorry to hear about the accident. Are you feeling better? Dr Whale mentioned that the shock had affected your memory."

Regina watched him sigh, and pinch the bridge of his nose, as if attempting to straighten his thoughts. She carefully monitored her own expression, morphing it from compassion to concern. When he didn't speak, she felt compelled to fill in the silence. The quicker they got this over with, the quicker she could get home and see to Henry's homework. Besides, the helpless look on his face left little doubt that the man didn't have both oars in the water, as it were.

" – Mr Gold, I know the last few weeks must have been extremely harrowing for you." She paused for effect, waiting for him to interject, but he kept silent, so she continued. "Especially with Sheriff Swan's investigation. I am sure this is all a misunderstanding that we will clear up in no time." She gave him her most reassuring smile. "I took the liberty of bringing some papers for you to look at. For an active businessman like yourself, nothing is worse than letting things go, even temporarily, and Dr Whale tells me that you will need rest and medical monitoring until we're sure that you're back to your old self. I would be happy to take care of business for you while you're concentrating on your health. And if need be, we will find you an excellent lawyer – though I doubt it will get to that."

She smiled her most charming smile.

" – That is indeed very thoughtful of you, Ms Mills."

Emboldened by his apparent acquiescence, she proceeded.

" – As I'm sure you know, you and I have worked together extensively before, and it would be no trouble for me to pick up the slack while you are getting yourself back on track. Here, we can decide on the best course of action, and I can walk you through all the necessary steps." She looked up. "Well, how does this sound?"

He appeared to reflect on her proposal, his fingers drumming slowly against the top of his cane. Finally, he met her gaze, smiling slightly, and Regina went very still. There was something distinctly unpleasant about his smirk.

" – Madam Mayor, I very much appreciate you going out of your way to help me at this difficult time."

She relaxed. She was clearly imagining things – the old devil was conniving, sure, but there was no need to worry. If he had his memories, he would have flown off the handle as soon as he saw her, especially after what looked like a spat with "Ms French."

" – It is not a problem at all" she beamed at him. "And please, there is no need for formalities between us. Do call me Regina."

He nodded slowly.

" – Very well, Regina. Do sit. _Please._"

She smiled through suddenly tense facial muscles, alarm bells going off again. She opened her mouth to say that she would prefer to remain standing, but for some reason this seemed like a bad idea, so she walked slowly over to the chair, and lowered herself into it. Surely, this didn't mean anything. He was simply being polite.

He turned away, looking at something in the parking lot again.

" – Now you listen to me, dearie, and _please_ do not interrupt until I am finished."

Regina froze, suddenly glad she was sitting. She opened her mouth again, then closed it promptly. Her mind began to work in overdrive. If he didn't have his memories back, would the "_please_" caveat he had requested from her work in the first place?

He didn't speak for a long time, and much as Regina tried to interject, she simply couldn't. It was as if all her thoughts were rattling and colliding together, and sounding out words required an unsurmountable amount of effort. She waited, trying to keep the tension from creeping into her expressions. Finally, he turned back to face her, and Regina felt cold fury slowly bubbling up somewhere deep in her chest. The bastard looked entirely too smug.

" – Now that I have your undivided attention, I would like to make a small request – since you appear to be in such a _helpful_ mood."

She braced herself. This might still be salvageable – if he asked her to stay away from his favorite chew-toy, she could easily deflect. After all, she had delegated others to do most of the dirty work. She didn't even have to see the little pest.

" – I don't know how or why you've constructed this elaborate charade with its ridiculous effort to pin a murder that we both know never happened on Ms French or myself, and to be perfectly frank, I don't particularly care. I will give you credit for inventiveness, though, but at this point, the game has gotten a bit old."

He turned away again, and Regina inhaled to tell him he was clearly delusional, but no sound came. She hissed through her teeth in frustration.

" – However." The old bastard lifted a finger to the ceiling, for added emphasis, marking whatever diatribe would inevitably follow. She'd get through this – he was clever, but he'd never been particularly good at thinking clearly whenever his feelings were concerned. She reminded herself that she had the advantage of a rational, objective outlook on the situation. After a pause, he continued.

" – Since you are in the business of trying to use those I care about against me, I suppose it would be only fair to return the favor. So – and do pay attention, dearie… If, from this moment on, any harm whatsoever comes to myself or Ms French … and, for the sake of clarity, I define harm broadly, and include slander, imprisonment, institutionalization, and of course, any form of bodily harm… I would like you to _please_ relinquish the custody of your adopted son Henry in favor of his biological mother, Emma Swan. As I'm sure you understand, this arrangement is contractual, and if its conditions are met – by which I mean, if any harm _at all_ comes to us, whether from you or from others in your employ, you will _willingly_ tell Henry that you will no longer be his mother, and act accordingly. _Please._"

She stared at him, stupefied, too shocked to even formulate a protest, let alone articulate one, even if she could. To add insult to injury, the scumbag's smile was politeness incarnate.

" – Of course, if this comes to pass, or if anything should happen to me to jeopardize this arrangement, I will make sure that all legal aspects are taken care of – whether by me, or by someone else."

Regina watched the bastard lean against the window frame, his hands still on his cane. She would have happily bludgeoned him with it if she could. Unfortunately, she was still unable to unglue her backside from the seat, or utter a word.

" – That will be all, Ms Mills. Do we have an understanding?"

She shot up from the chair, her paralysis finally releasing her from its grip.

" – You will not get away with this, Gold. I promise you that."

He stared at her thoughtfully.

" – I recall Cora told me once that love was weakness. It is also what makes us parents – perhaps not necessarily good parents, but nevertheless, I'm afraid it comes with the territory. You have a choice, Ms Mills. I won't presume to make it for you."

She gritted her teeth, as much at the reminder of her mother as from the verbal slap of his comment.

" – Now, if you'll excuse me. I'd like to get home."

He pushed himself off the window frame, and limped around her towards the exit. She frantically tried to come up with a solution, a loophole in the request, her hands balling into fists and her perfectly manicured nails digging into the palms of her hands.

" – Don't think this is over, Gold."

He turned in the doorframe with one final look.

" – For you sake, Your Majesty, I truly hope it is. But the choice is yours, of course."

She tried to stare a hole in his back, wishing more than ever that she still had her magic. Her mind worked feverishly, trying to resolve the verbal riddle. There was no way she was giving up Henry, and there was certainly no way she was going to let Gold get away with this. They weren't supposed to get their happy endings – none of them were, except for her. The _ease_ with which he had outmaneuvered her made her simply speechless with fury.

She listened to the echoes of his uneven gait, the cane clacking against the tiles, the chime of the elevator, the whirl of the machinery propelling him away from the hospital floor. She was still so angry she felt immobilized, as if her expensive pumps had suddenly decided to sprout roots. Finally, her mind stumbled on the glimmer of a solution. Magic like this – curse, geas, what have you – was all verbiage. The trick was to take an element out of the equation, and the whole castle of cards would come tumbling down.

And the main variable in this particular piece of nastiness was Emma Swan. Without her, there would be no one to transfer custody to, and hence the entire request would be null and void.

Regina smiled to herself, slowly regaining her composure. She turned, and began to walk leisurely towards the exit.

How very fortunate. Taking Emma Swan out of the equation was high on her to-do list already. She'd simply have to move it to the top.

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**Voila. The next chapter will have multiple POVs.**


	35. Chapter 35: Never Wound a Snake

**Ok folks, finally managed to carve out some time to post this longish chapter. Wish I could give you some Rumbelle after the last episode (which, I swear, if they keep this up will drive me to drinking) - for what it's worth, it's coming next. For now, here's a little experiment in 4 POVs. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 35**

**Where everyone has a motive, but few have a plan**

**"It is not a move, even the best move, that you must seek, but a realizable plan." - Znosko-Borovsky**

Emma groaned and forced herself to sit up. She didn't know what time it was, except that the sky was darkening, and the miserable weather was gathering up for another storm. Outside, trees were bending, their leaves ruffling in the strong wind. The window leaked cold air, and there was an unpleasantl draft blowing on her exposed neck.

She swung her legs to the side of the bed and stood, taking a few moments until she found her balance. Her head still pounded, her elbow was throbbing, and she felt vaguely nauseous, although she suspected it was more from hunger than from the head injury. All she had eaten since the accident was a granola bar Archie had purveyed from a vending machine when he was fetching his soda.

Jefferson's visit had done nothing to improve the headache, either. Nor did she like him any better now than she had before. In fact, it was quite possible that she liked him a little less. But it didn't change the fact that, nuts or not, the maniac had played an important role in the events that had led up to her being in this mess.

She had hoped that he'd volunteer some facts, offer some new clues. As their discussion progressed, his speech had become more and more disjointed, more metaphorical, until she had to strain to squeeze any meaning out of it at all. What she did get out the guy was that somehow Regina had roped him into staging the tableaux that had been attributed to Ella French. At least, that's what she thought he'd meant. Strangely enough, this didn't feel like a revelation. And if it was the truth, then the whole case was bogus. But since the car accident, she didn't give much of a damn about the case anymore – her mind had switched to survival mode, and she was now back to what she did best: identify the danger, and neutralize it.

It hadn't helped that after Jefferson left the room, Archie brought in Henry. The kid was so agitated and obviously worried about her that Emma felt a massive onslaught of guilt, the kind that makes you feel limp and helpless and longing for some deep dark hole to crawl in and hide. What kind of mother would she make, if her kid was more worried about her than she was about him? She had a vague feeling that this kind of reversal shouldn't happen, and it made her miserable, plain and simple. So when he said he had to get home, she'd actually been relieved, which only made the self-induced guilt trip worse.

Now that she was alone, however, she could focus on the task at hand. An experiment. Jefferson had forced her to think of the town as an experiment, and strangely enough, the analogy proved fairly productive. It wasn't as kooky as the whole curse business, but it was just far-fetched enough that it allowed her to suspend disbelief and look at things from a different angle. And there had been something that had bugged her from the start, something that the whole debacle with Ella, Gold and the alleged murder had thrown into relief. Now, she had a tentative plan to verify just how far the rabbit hole went.

She didn't think it'd work. In fact, there was simply no way that it would. But she'd test the theory her poor bruised brain had been hatching since her talk with her unwanted visitor, and if it proved to be a complete and utter flop, she could go back to thinking like a normal, rational being. Just because she'd entertain this crazy idea for a bit didn't automatically make her a lunatic.

To test her freshly minted hypothesis, she needed a suitable guinea pig, and in order to get one, she had to temporarily leave the room. She proceeded to change out of the hospital gown, putting back her own clothes. Despite the slowness and painfulness of the exercise, it made her feel better, somehow, more in control. Now, she would walk down the hall and see what she could turn up, and if anyone asked, she'd say she was looking for the vending machine. Or just glare at them until they backed down – the last thing she was going to start doing was explaining herself to complete strangers.

She had a plan. "To catch a guinea-pig" Emma mumbled quietly under her breath, and wandered into the corridor, gingerly holding her head as motionless as she could so as not to jostle its long-suffering contents.

She came across several members of the hospital personnel, but all of them were wearing scrubs and hurrying about busily, giving Emma brief nods or curious glances. None of them paid much attention. Finally, she rounded the corner and found one of the nurses that had treated her waiting for the elevator. Emma observed with approval that the young woman had already put on her coat, a purple pleather purse swung over her shoulder. She was rummaging in it for what Emma assumed were her keys. Emma assessed the woman for her suitability as an experimental subject. She had changed out of her scrubs – sensible soft-soled shoes replaced with a pair of high-heeled pumps. The hem of a skirt was peeking from under the coat. It didn't take a great analytical mind to conclude that the girl was going out after work.

Emma coughed politely to draw the nurse's attention, and the poor woman actually jumped, startled.

" – Oh!" She dropped her hands from her purse and turned to face Emma. "You scared me."

" – Sorry."

She tried to give the nurse her friendliest smile, but by the looks of it, it fell a little short.

" – Shelley, right?"

Shelley checked for her nametag, but found it gone, and smiled awkwardly at Emma.

" – Sorry. You have a good memory, Sheriff Swan."

" – I guess it comes with the job." Emma tried to keep the friendly face on, and gestured towards the young woman's shoes with her chin. "Those are pretty. Are you going out?"

The woman seemed to relax, and her smile became more genuine.

" – Yeah. I haven't had time to meet with my girlfriends in forever, and we've finally made plans for a few drinks. I am _so_ overdue for a Margarita, let me tell you."

They both laughed, Emma nodding her head in agreement.

" – Mind sneaking me one?" she teased.

" – Wish I could, dear, but Dr Whale would have my head." She lowered her tone. "Not that he's a stranger to the bottle, mind you, but still, work is work."

Emma smiled. Now that they had broken the ice, she had to stop beating about the bush and get on with her program.

" – Shelley, I wanted to ask you something. You've worked here for a while, correct?"

The nurse nodded.

" – As long as I can remember, yes. I guess I'm in it for life." She chuckled, and Emma wasn't sure whether the comment was pleased or wistful, or perhaps a bit of both.

" – Do you remember this woman… What was her name? Martha Tonner? Gus Tonner's mother? My records indicate that she was treated here for a nervous breakdown maybe seven, eight years ago? Do you know what happened to her?"

She waited with bated breath. This was her litmus test – she knew absolutely nothing of the mythical Gus Tonner's family, there had been no records of them at all. In other words, the story about "Martha" was entirely fabricated.

Shelley frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose in concentration. The pause drew on, and Emma felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. There was no way this would work – it was simply inconceivable that it would work. The nurse wouldn't remember anything of the sort, because Martha Tonner simply _didn't exist_.

Finally, the woman's face cleared, and she gave Emma a beaming smile.

" – Yeah! Of course, how could I forget? Mrs Tonner. We've had her downstairs for a while. She came in pretty rough shape." The nurse's tone went from excited to hushed and conspiratorial. "Is this for your investigation?"

Emma felt her stomach sink, her mind suddenly blank, her pulse beating in her ears.

Then she gathered her wits. There was still phase two.

" – Shelly, can you do me a favor? Can you ask your friends if they maybe remember anything about what happened to Martha? It's really important for the case I'm working on."

Shelley nodded, happy to help, eager for the new topic of gossip.

" – Of course! I'd be happy to ask around. Also, I'm sure the hospital would have kept records, but I'll let you know what I find out tomorrow, Ok?" Her brow wrinkled in embarrassment. "You should probably rest now, I don't want to get yelled at by Dr Whale. He won't be pleased if he sees you out and about." She sounded sheepish and suddenly very young. Emma wondered if she herself had ever seemed this young and naïve. Somehow, she doubted it.

She smiled just as the elevator announced its arrival with a ding.

" – Thanks, Shelley. Just let me know what you turn up. Or if you remember anything more."

The nurse gave her a final grin and a parting nod, and walked through the sliding doors. As they closed on her, Emma turned around, and walked slowly back towards her room. Her mind was simultaneously empty and buzzing, her stomach in knots. "What the hell?" Her lips moved to form the words, breathlessly, and she repeated them like a mantra, as if eventually someone would take pity on her and answer the question.

An experiment. What the hell kind of experiment was this, exactly?

* * *

Dr Whale watched the pretty nurse saunter out of the elevator and hurry out of the front door towards the parking lot. After a long hard look at her behind, he turned around and walked into the staff lounge. It was mercifully empty, now that the day was drawing to a close. He'd done the rounds, he'd done the paperwork, and now he could devote a few blessed moments to communing with Mr. Daniels, Black Label. He'd been sneaking a drink here and there since four thirty, which was a bit early even for him. He tried to stay away from the bottle before six, usually, but this had been a hard day, and he just needed something to take the edge off. Later, he'd go to the diner, or maybe make it to the bar, even though he didn't like to be seen in the local watering hole too much. Somehow, Granny's was more discrete, and besides, all its night-time dwellers were predictably low lives who wouldn't gossip, or if they did, no one would pay much attention.

Maybe, if he'd had a date, he'd change his usual haunt, but he hadn't had a date since Mary Margaret. The random tryst with one of the nurses in the utility closet the other week didn't really count. They just went back to business as usual after that – both content not to speak of it again.

The school teacher had been a sweet sort, and very pretty, but the whole prim and proper thing just put him off. And she wanted to _talk_ – blue hell on a stick , she wanted to have these asinine "intellectual" conversations about the books she'd been reading, or the things she'd been thinking about, or how her day had been. He was happy enough to let her prattle along at first, not paying much attention aside from the requisite pauses when he was supposed to insert friendly noises. Keep your eyes on the prize, he told himself. Predictably enough, he got distracted by Ruby's long legs. No matter, it was clear from the start that Mary Margaret was onto him – it was one of those cases where it was plain as day that neither was happy with what the other brought to the table. Well, if she wanted a Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset, she was barking up the wrong tree.

Now, Ruby, that was a different thing – she certainly dressed and acted like she was looking for a good time. By now he knew it was mostly all show, she had told him to take a hike more often that he could remember. But, one of those days, she'd have a weak moment, might need a shoulder to cry on, or simply might feel bad about herself for whatever reason. And she'd give in. They all did eventually, even the prudish Mary Margaret. That was the beauty of it all – or maybe the ugliness – no one was able to escape the drab cloud that hung over the town, and eventually, it'd chip away at your defenses and make you look for something, anything, to bring a spark of life into the drudgery. A brief reprieve from all this… shit. A spark was all it was, never lasting. But then, he'd long since learned that it was all there was anyway.

He tried to remember when he had become so jaded. He used to be a good doctor, taking pride in his work, enjoying the intellectual challenge, the constant sense of urgency. He even had a decent bedside manner, from what he'd been told. Patients had liked him. And he used to actually be quite good at what he did – maybe still was, at least in terms of clinical skill – old habits die hard after all. But there was this feeling of hopelessness that had somehow crept into his life, made itself comfortable, and decided to stay. Now, it colored everything, and he just couldn't bring himself to give a rat's ass about much at all. The booze dulled the bleakness – didn't take it away, but made him numb to it. He wasn't an idiot, he knew that long-term alcohol consumption could actually worsen a depressive state, but he couldn't give up the temporary reprieve from the soul-sucking monotony and the feeling that his whole life had somehow dead-ended in a grimy back alley.

He poured himself two fingers of bourbon and downed it in one go, not noticing the taste. He was slowly creeping up on his favorite part of the intoxication process, where his mind became empty and his brain obligingly manufactured an artificial feeling of security and good cheer. It all would come crashing down later, and he'd spiral into an even deeper hole, but this wouldn't happen until a few hours from now. Right now, he was going up the hill on the joy ride.

He heard the clicking of heels in the hallway, and quickly shoved the bottle and glass into a desk drawer, got up, and poured himself a cup of stale coffee. He had expected Regina to show up after all her careful micromanaging, and there she came, big as life and twice as rotten. He'd recognize those damn heels clicking away even if all the devils of hell had gathered in the lounge and were playing the polka at a hundred and fifty decibels.

He hated the witch. No bones about it, he couldn't stand her, and not a little bit because she terrified the shit out of him. And of course, he was as deep in her pocket as her pocket went. Not a hell of a lot he could do, either – she'd had some pretty serious dirt on him, enough to get his medical license revoked, and she'd been hanging it over his head like a bloody grand piano, threatening to use it if he so much as hiccupped funny. So when the Mayor said jump, he asked how high and thanked her for her trouble.

When Gold and Emma Swan were brought to the hospital in the early afternoon, he had been expecting them. Hadn't known in what state, but he had been fully briefed that there had been an accident. He wasn't going to wonder how the Mayor was so well informed. What you didn't know made you sleep better. All she had told him was that he was to keep both of them under very close observation, run the gamut of tests, and not let them check out without her approval. That, and screen their visitors, and report back. He would've done it anyway: both were exhibiting signs of a concussion. Emma Swan was worse off than Gold, but that wasn't surprising, she had been the driver, while he had been seated in the back. But then, Gold was the one with the more severe symptoms. At least at first glance. The conniving little creep couldn't tell right from upstairs when they first brought him in. It was almost… well, it was almost satisfying, to be perfectly honest. He never cared much for the guy: Gold made him intensely uncomfortable, and he just couldn't shake the feeling that underneath the perfectly composed exterior lurked a certifiable psychopath. Hell, the pawnbroker didn't seem quite human to him, even though this was, of course, a ridiculous thought. Either way, there was something profoundly wrong about the fellow.

Mayor Mills appeared in the doorway in all her malevolent glory, and he winced involuntarily. She didn't look pleased with life, and this meant that she'd probably use him as a conveniently available punching bag. Well, he had done nothing wrong, both of his patients were safely tucked in bed, the nurses were keeping watch, and no one was checking out without his express permission. So she could vent, but hopefully she'd run out of steam quickly.

She sailed into the room and perched on the side of the desk, way too close to him for comfort. He took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, the Styrofoam cup resting awkwardly against the crease of his elbow.

" – Dr Whale." She assessed him critically, and made a demonstrative sniffing sound. "I see that your work day is over."

" – Just taking a break, Regina."

She gave him a smirk, but didn't pursue the topic, and Whale felt vaguely relieved.

" – I would like you to make sure that Sheriff Swan stays under observation until you are absolutely certain that her health is no longer in danger. Are we quite clear?"

Oh yes. Abundantly clear indeed.

He nodded.

" – Of course." He hesitated, wandering if more instructions were coming, but when she didn't say anything, he pressed the issue.

" – What about Gold?"

He noticed that her expression soured, and wondered what it was about. Had the pawnbroker somehow managed to ruffle Madam Mayor's carefully groomed feathers even in his state? That would have been quite something, he'd give the creep that much.

" – Let him do what he pleases, as long as it accords with your own assessment of his health. In fact, I suspect he already checked himself out. Either way, do not interfere."

He shrugged, then nodded again. Maybe if he didn't talk, she'd leave faster. She seemed to hesitate for a few moments, as if she wanted to add another comment, but didn't quite know how to broach the topic.

" – Tell me…"

Oh hell, this was the moment when the proverbial fat lady was gathering air into her lungs before blasting all the windows to smithereens. He readied himself.

" – What sorts of complications might Sheriff Swan develop from her concussion?"

He frowned, trying to puzzle out what the Mayor was really asking. Eventually, he simply shrugged, slipping into his professional mask.

" – The concussion is relatively mild, and she is stable now. There is always a risk of PCS… _post-concussion syndrome_" he translated, after observing the blank look on the Mayor's face. "Headaches that can be quite severe and last anywhere from a few days to a few months. Dizziness, anxiety are also potential complications. If this happens, she might need to come back for treatment, but we won't know until some time down the line whether any symptoms develop, and to be perfectly honest, I doubt …"

She cut him off with a quick wave of her hand.

" – Why don't you keep Ms Swan here until you are quite sure there are no _additional_ symptoms, and keep me updated?"

He shrugged, and nodded. So far she wasn't asking him for anything he wouldn't have done anyway.

He expected her to turn on her heels and leave, her need for micromanagement satisfied, but was unpleasantly surprised to observe that Madam Mayor decided to linger, slowly circumambulating the lounge and trailing her long nails along the surfaces of the institutional furniture. What on Earth did she want with him, he wondered. Finally, she stopped pacing and turned to face him. He noticed a worry crease form between her eyebrows, and her expression grew more and more focused, as if she was reflecting on the provenance of the universe.

" – Dr Whale, will Sheriff Swan necessitate any blood work?"

He frowned, still profoundly confused by what the Mayor was trying to achieve with her bizarre interrogation.

" – I don't know. I suppose I could offer that we get a complete physical done while she's here anyway, but it's entirely up to her. I can't force it, obviously. It'd have to be voluntary." He narrowed his eyes at the witch, hoping that perhaps it'd bring her and her questionable intentions into sharper focus. The pensive expression remained plastered on her face. Cogs were clearly turning in there, and he didn't like it one bit.

" – Voluntary, you say…" She smiled slightly, the change so subtle yet so evidently malevolent.

Finally, she nodded.

" – It would benefit you, Dr Whale, to convince Ms Swan of getting the full physical in a few days from now. Say, on Monday afternoon. If she wants to leave before that, don't stop her. As long as she comes back. And do contact me with the appointment information."

She didn't wait for him to respond, but simply turned around and left the room.

He stood there for a few moments, his budding inebriation now completely evaporated. If he were a good doctor – a good man – he'd ask himself what the hell she was planning. Since he was neither, he let it go.

Maybe he'd go to the bar after all. Maybe he'd look for someone to spend the night with. Or maybe he'd end up with his good old friend Jack, like he did most evenings.

Either way, it beat the alternative of sharing the company of his own monsters.

* * *

Leroy sat in his idling car and watched Regina Mills exit the hospital. He followed her with his eyes until she climbed into her showy ride and sped off. Something had apparently put a fire under her ass. Always keeping a death grip on the town's pulse, that one.

He wondered whether she was solely responsible for the car wreck that had the local gossip-mongers a-buzzing with excitement, or if she maybe had a little help from her friends. Not that she had friends, more like minions, always eager to please. His mind kept returning to the district attorney and his oh-so-convenient appearance by the police cruiser. If only he and Henry had gotten there earlier and managed to screw up the tires, this whole mess could have been avoided. He didn't have any doubt that this was a hit – but whether the target had been Sheriff Swan or the pawnbroker – or maybe both – he wasn't sure.

He'd been waiting for at least twenty minutes, and wondered what the hell was taking Ella so long. She'd called him, asking for a ride from the hospital, and by the sound of her voice, she sounded pretty upset. There'd been something else in her voice, too, something he didn't recall hearing before. A kind of resolve, maybe. Come to think of it, there'd been something different about her ever since he had let her out of her holding cell. She seemed more whole, somehow, like some fundamental part that had been missing previously had clicked into place. Of course, she'd also been freaking out about her pawnbroker, but that wasn't quite it, there was something more there…

He shrugged to himself. Whatever it was, his task was pretty simple: pick up his friend, and drive her to Gold's house. He had offered for her to stay with him for a day or two, until the dust settled, but she had refused. But then, he'd heard the hesitation. Maybe she just felt awkward staying at Gold's while he was in the hospital. Or maybe they'd had a fight. He didn't feel like it was his place to pry. He didn't like their relationship, and he sure as hell didn't think it was headed anywhere good. No rainbows and unicorns at the end of that road, but then again, you pick your way, and you walk it. No one's going to travel it for you. And it certainly wasn't his place to dispense relationship advice. Hell, he still pined over a nun, for crying out loud.

Either way, Storybrooke was no grand metropolis, but the walk from the hospital all the way to the other side of town would be a bitch. Especially in this weather. So he waited.

He cranked up the heat, giving a dirty look to the miserable-ass outside world. Another storm was rolling in, and he tried to remember if he had tied down the tarp on the boat securely enough.

As if the weather was some kind of perverse reflection of the general mood, he kept getting an uneasy feeling, like something big and monumentally bad was about to go down. He tried to shake the sense of foreboding, but it clung to him like wet toilet paper to a shoe. He frowned. It wasn't like him to get the heebie-jeebies, but there was no denying that the town was rolling off the rails.

He spotted movement by the front entrance, and hoped it'd be Ella, but instead he saw Henry, with the shrink in tow. They set off towards the pick-up area, and Leroy watched as Mary-Margaret's boxy station wagon rolled up to the curb. Good, he thought, at least the kid had a ride. This had been a hell of a day for him. For all of them.

He settled himself more deeply into the car seat, and resumed his watch.

* * *

The rain started suddenly, and within a few minutes, thickened to the consistency of a wall. He crawled slowly down the road, stuck behind the angular outline of an old station wagon, as the vehicle was called in this world, although in his experience wagons tended to be attached to the tail end of a horse. Appropriately, it moved at the speed of a horse's trot.

Returning to his mansion gave him no pleasure, but it was preferable to the stark hallways and minuscule cells of the swarming beehive where he had visited the Swan Princess. Being around that many bodies simultaneously occupying the same space left his skin feeling coated with damp sand, adhesive and abrasive. For once, he craved the hollow tunnels of his prison, carved out of the muffled silence. His mind could rest in the emptiness, chasing its own echoes.

He was unsure what he had achieved by giving his words to the Swan Princess, and his head felt more unattached than usual, an air balloon that threatened to float off for lack of ballast.

She didn't _see_. Or he didn't see that she saw. And since she had to _see_ to believe, she remained blind. Although, perhaps, it was he who was eyeless, for failing to see what she didn't. But he was eyeless, not aimless, and he would continue, as far as his own limited sight permitted, to try to open her eyes.

The mansion finally loomed into view, floating out of the rain like the abandoned carcass of a mastodon, and he left his own wagon tucked against its side, hurrying to safety from the elements.

Once sheltered by the vacant darkness, he shrugged out of his coat, readjusted the cuffs of his shirt, damp from the humidity, and walked upstairs, not bothering with the lamps for the little enlightenment they offered. There, in the company of his maps and hats, there was no human mirror to throw back his own cracked reflection, and no light to cast it in shadows.

The doorbell rang just as he made it up the stairs. He was not expecting visitors, but his legs carried him back down to the entrance, and he slowly opened the door to welcome the intruder. At the sight of the Bitch of Spades, he felt no particular surprise, only wonder that the rain and late hour had left her undeterred from whatever new machinations she was concocting. Alas, she would not melt from exposure to mere water.

" – Jefferson, dear. May I come in?"

He considered refusing, but decided against it. He would see what poison she offered. He stepped out of her way and she walked through the door, carrying a large circular box, covered with droplets.

" – Your cauldron?" he asked, nodding towards the box.

The Bitch of Spades smiled.

" – Amusing. And no. This in fact belongs to you, I believe."

She walked towards his living room, making herself at home in his prison.

" – How very… gothic of you. Will you not turn on the light, at least, or are we to talk in the dark?"

The Hatter knew she was mocking him, but his skin had grown thick, and her words bounced off without penetrating underneath. He flipped the light switch and squinted. The box seemed to pull at him, and he walked towards it slowly, wondering what it hid from view. He looked from the snake in front of him, to the snake concealed in the box. He was no snake charmer, and so he felt her attempts at charm snake around him like a vice. He swatted at it, before it could slither under his thick skin and fester.

As if reading his mind, or at least the faded scribbles that were left of it, she opened the lid.

It was his Hat.

" – You've had it all along?" he asked, the accusation crawling into his voice.

" – But of course. And I need you to use it."

He shrugged. To pull magic from the hat, you needed magic out of the hat. She had made sure that none was to be found, so she was asking him to perform the impossible.

" – Contrary to what you might think, Your Majesty, one cannot pull himself up by his own bootstraps" he stated, his tone flat despite the irony. He had heard of a man who had performed the task once.

" – Yes, yes. I know. It needs magic. And as luck would have it, I happen to have some."

" – And why would I help you?"

He was genuinely curious.

" – Because I can give you back what you want." She waved her hand, as if to materialize the outline of his heart's desire. Since it failed to appear, she threw some words in to fill the empty spot. "I can give you your daughter back."

The Hatter looked from the Bitch of Spades to the Hat, and back again. And so, she was willing to play her biggest trump. No stick this time, only a carrot. This was a new and unexpected development, and he carefully considered the questionable lure.

" – Will you send us back to our world, then?"

He knew it was impossible, but he wanted to test the waters, to determine how earnest she was in offering to restore his family to him. He had not forgotten that, much like the Joker, the Bitch of Spades dealt mostly in deceit.

" – Even if I could, do you truly wish to go back to your hovel? What is the going rate of fungus these days?" She approached, stopping inches away from his chest.

" – What I offer is much better. A new life here, with new memories. None of your past hardships for you, or for your daughter."

He considered the offer. He knew he could not take it, but he also knew he could not _not_ take it. Since he could not do less than nothing, and doing nothing was still doing something, he would have to decide what that slightly more than nothing would be. What he could do, if doing anything was what he was in the business of doing in the first place, was a little sleight of hand. A slight duplicity, to keep dry on a rainy day like this.

No one could fill all the empty spaces between the words of a deal. He'd take the empty holes between the words and give them to someone else to carry. He suspected the Joker might be interested, if he still had his head about him. If the Swan Princess was to save them all, as had been prophesized, then it didn't matter whether he did or he didn't. As a matter of fact, he might as well.

" – Very well. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

**Voila. I will try to update very soon. Meanwhile, comments and feedback always welcome.**


	36. Chapter 36: Semantics

**Chapter 36**

**Where Belle and Rumpelstiltskin discuss semantics**

"_**In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate." – Isaac Asimov**_

"_**The score never interested me, only the game."**__**―**__**Mae West**_

By the time she got to the hospital parking lot, the storm was in full fury. Her original plan to locate Emma Swan had not panned out - when she finally managed to squirrel out the information about Emma's room from some grumpy orderly, it stood deserted, what she assumed was Emma's hospital garb discarded on the bed the only remainder of the sheriff. No one else who could lend her a sympathetic ear was to be found, either. So with a sense of profound failure, Belle exited the hospital, only to be met with a torrent of icy water blown horizontally by a gale-force wind. Fortunately, there were not many cars in the parking lot, and she had no trouble identifying Leroy's.

She hurried towards it, and as she was approaching, the passenger door swung open with a rusty creak. She eased herself inside the vehicle, and was immediately greeted with a blast of dry heat and the stale smell of old tobacco. Compared to the grizzly weather, it was nothing short of divine. Once settled, and acutely aware that she was leaking water all over the seat, which promptly began to generate an overwhelming wet dog odor, she turned to her friend. Leroy's expression was stuck halfway between concern and disapproval, although she was unsure whether the latter sentiment was on account of her or the weather.

" - Where to, sister?"

Belle shot him a quick side glance, wondering whether this was a subtle hint on Leroy's part - or Grumpy's to be more accurate - to convince her not to return to Gold's house. But with a quick look at his face, the mosaic of deep sun wrinkles and bristly dark stubble betraying nothing but sincere concern, she decided that he was simply leaving her the option of changing her mind. She wondered if she should, but brushed the thought under the proverbial rug. It'd be there if she wanted to pick it up later, but for now, running was not an option. Besides, she thought, most of her possessions, such as they were, remained in the guest bedroom of Rumpelstiltskin's mansion.

It was curious, in some sense, that she had befriended Leroy in this world, as she had forged a bond with Grumpy in the other, as if whatever the transplantation into this realm had done to her mind could not fully eradicate her previous attachments. No wonder, too, that Gold – or Rumpelstiltskin – had never been successfully exorcised from her memory. Even if, in this strange place, he was so radically different, the chaotic glee replaced with an intense focus, and a kind of bone deep sorrow.

The thought opened the recent wound afresh, and she gritted her teeth and clenched her fists at the pain of it.

Realizing that Leroy was still waiting for an answer, she turned to face him, and gave him her most reassuring smile.

" - To Gold's house."

The former dwarf graced her with one long, inscrutable look, then nodded, apparently resigned.

" - If that's what you want to do, sister." He put the car in reverse, and they backed out of their parking spot, heading towards the main road. The heavy silence that hung between them felt like a tangible presence - a third and unwelcome passenger that had somehow climbed into the backseat when no one was looking, and was now hitching a ride somewhere neither of them wanted to go. Finally, Leroy decided to kick it to the curb.

" - Listen, I just want you to know that you always have an option." He paused, fishing for words, but they weren't biting. "What I mean is..." he seemed at a complete loss, his frustration increasingly visible. "Aw, crap. You know I'm no good at these things. What I mean is, you shouldn't stay just because you think there's nowhere else to go. You know what I'm saying?"

She smiled at him again, realizing that the expression was probably full of cracks and fissures, but the emotional whirlwind of the last few days was finally catching up with her, as if something about Leroy's awkward display of compassion had finally broken through the dam of her defenses. She felt the tell-tale burn at the back of her eyes, and forced the tears down. They didn't go far, staying close to the surface, and threatening to spill out at the slightest provocation.

" - It's ok, Leroy. I can't leave without making sure that there's nothing to stay for." She hadn't intended to sound like a walking paradox, but wasn't sure how to formulate the thought. She smiled apologetically in his general direction."Does that make sense?"

He didn't say anything for a long time, and they simply drove. After Belle decided he would likely not respond, he finally sighed, perhaps a tad louder than he was probably aiming for.

" - It makes sense, sure. And I'm the last person that should be giving you advice on this." He was mulling something over, and Belle decided that advice, or its distant relative, would inevitably follow. "I guess I'm just worried that you'll be staying for the wrong reasons. There's sure plenty enough of that around here."

" - I hope I won't" she said, but Leroy's words had hit fertile soil and sprouted into familiar doubts. She tried to stomp out the seedlings before they turned into a jungle where she'd get lost. He exhaled briefly, and nodded once, apparently ready to shelve the conversation for the time being.

Though they drove excruciatingly slowly on account of the weather, Belle felt an unpleasant shock when she realized that they were pulling up to the edge of the neighborhood. Usually, this was where Leroy would drop her off, and she would cover the rest of the distance on foot, but this time he pulled up to the house, letting the car idle by the curb. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself, and fished around in one of the oversized pockets for her set of keys. Through the passenger window, the mansion loomed dark and unwelcoming.

" - I guess this is where I get off" she quipped, but the humor felt a little shaky, more resigned than lighthearted, and she hated the fact that her anxieties had apparently taken root, like an old injury or a bad habit.

He nodded, and she felt immense relief that he didn't exploit her moment of weakness and press the issue.

" - You have my number. I'd offer an ear if you wanted to talk, but you probably noticed I'm no good at that." He suddenly gave her a brilliant grin that lit up his whole face. "I'd recommend Ruby if you need girl talk. But I'm here if you want more pragmatic support."

Despite herself, Belle laughed, some of the heaviness suddenly lifting. She really did have allies.

" - Thank you, Leroy." Before he could retreat into his grumpy shell, she gave him a quick hug and a peck on one prickly cheek, then grabbed her purse, clambered out of the car and into the deluge, and ran to the front porch.

The house felt different –guarded and somehow closed in on itself. Its familiar smells of lemon wax and old books were more stuffy than comforting, as if this space that had become familiar in the last weeks now wondered if she too had become a stranger. Belle wondered that herself.

Now that she was alone with her thoughts, her fears jumped on the opportunity to take over. Belle found herself frozen in the hallway, literally immobilized by two contradictory impulses. What was transpiring in her head was an insufferable tug-of-war between the hopeful, optimistic side of her - that slightly naïve aspect that was determined to see the best in every person and situation, often to the detriment of any sense of factual reality - and the pessimistic cynical side, which was usually locked away in some small room at the back of her consciousness, and seemed content, most of the time, to keep to itself. But not in this case. The pessimist climbed out of its hole, took center stage, and began to pontificate. It was trying to explain to the optimist that this was not her house, that she had been living here on borrowed time, and that if Rumpelstiltskin had lost his memories, she had absolutely no business being here. And even if he hadn't lost his memories, the pessimist continued, then his little display at the hospital should have made it abundantly clear that he did not want her in his life. After all, the pessimist conjectured, he had been known to do this before - to push away anyone who ever got a little too close for comfort. And she, Belle, knew this first hand. And who was she to think that she was somehow different, or that he would change on her account? The pessimist preached on, dredging up some nonsense about tigers and stripes, and about old monkeys and new tricks. After it was done with its excursion through zoological clichés, the pessimist went off to regroup, clearly gathering more fuel for its rhetorical efforts.

The optimist took this opportunity to pipe up. Its main point was that there were other possible explanations for what had happened at the hospital, and that before she could make a decision or pass judgment, it was imperative that she find out for sure where they stood. The pessimist found this reasoning feeble and unconvincing, and scoffed at the naïve attempts to grasp at straws when the ship was not just sinking, but had arguably never been sea-worthy to begin with. The optimist felt profound outrage at this suggestion, but it was somehow less articulate and talented at conjecture than the pessimist, because many of its insights were difficult to put into words.

Eventually, Belle got tired of the the bickering, and ordered both the optimist and the pessimist to shut it. They withdrew to their respective corners, grumbling, neither willing to give any ground to the other. She forced herself to walk up the stairs to her room. The least she could do was to gather her belongings. This was a rational decision, she told herself. After all, if her host – to use a neutral term for a highly complicated relationship – really had lost his memories, the least she could do was to give him some room to reflect. And the last thing he would likely want was for a stranger to be intruding on his property.

The pessimist hooted at what it perceived as a victory, while the optimist sulked. She firmly brought both to heel. She was in no position to humor her emotions and expectations for the time being, so they both could stuff a sock in it, for all she cared.

Speaking of socks, she had work to do. She switched the light on, and surveyed the premises. The room was tidy, but somehow impersonal. Full of grim determination, Belle walked over to the small wooden dresser, and pulled open the top drawer, carefully assessing its contents.

Faced with her carefully folded possessions, Belle suddenly realized she did not have a bag to store her things, and the thought was somehow both ridiculous and flabbergasting. What had she been thinking? How had she come to live with this man, with nothing to really call her own, no foundation to build from other than her own determination to make things work, somehow, no matter what the price might be? Suddenly faced with the enormity of her precariousness, Belle found herself sitting on the bed, staring blankly at some nondescript spot on the carpet. The carpet offered no new insight, so her thoughts crowded in her head and jostled each other, her skull somehow feeling too small to contain them all.

Then she remembered Leroy's words. In an odd moment of prescience, he had reminded her that she had options. She had made it this far, with nothing, not even her memories of her true sense of self to carry her through. She had managed to survive with a garbled mind and no support structure, with nothing but the resolve to put one foot in front of the other until she found herself walking. And walk she did, perhaps right into the same mistakes she had made before, but this had been her path, and no one would walk it for her.

She lifted her head, some sense of resolve returning, although she had no idea where her next steps should take her. Perhaps walking mindlessly forward was overrated. She found herself paralyzed once again, vacillating between irreconcilable imperatives. Finally, she forced herself to stand, feeling hoisted up like a puppet on strings. The only thing that she could do was gather her belongings and wait. She had her loyalties. What did people in this realm like to say to themselves? Choose your poison, and let it kill you. Well, she had chosen her poison, and whether it killed her or not was debatable. After all, poisons wouldn't be poisons if one couldn't become impervious to them, the result of diluted exposures.

As the tail end of her thought coursed through her feverish mind and sparkled out of existence at its horizon, she heard a noise downstairs. She froze, every particle of her being converted into listening.

She heard the front door swing open, and identified, as if it were part of her own embodied being, the jagged gait of her host.

" – Belle?"

The sound of her real name reverberated upward, bouncing off the walls of the house and somehow domesticating them anew. She found herself walking to the balustrade, her hands curling around the wood railing, and her gaze sought the source of the incantation in the semi-darkness of the first floor.

She made her way down the stairs slowly, as if no longer material, a ghost of a ghost haunting a house long forgotten, but ineluctably drawn to memories that persisted, beyond the necessity of actual recollection. She found herself sitting on the second step from the bottom, her knees drawn up and her eyes trained on her host – or was it jailor, or lover, she could never remember quite right, or perhaps her own private monster – the incandescent letters of their unfinished story singing the side of her face, and illuminating his.

" – You haven't left."

The statement was only barely so, still full of the question it didn't dare ask.

" – And you were full of rubbish!" Belle found herself snapping back into full awareness, suddenly free of the hypnotic lure of whatever lived between them.

He gave her a defeated look, his face etched into the weary, wary lines that came with carrying more guilt than any man should bear. It was his guilt to carry, she reminded herself, but it was also in her nature to offer her own shoulder in support. It was all too complicated to articulate, so she said nothing, and he filled the silence for her.

" – I am truly sorry. I couldn't let Regina find out about you – I couldn't risk it." He offered a smile that was too hopeful to be reassuring. "It is settled now. She won't be able to do us any harm."

She wondered at the formulation, but for some inexplicable reason, she thought this man was not the being she had come to know so long ago, when she had to fight him tooth and claw to unearth the scattered remains of his humanity. Perhaps this man was also ruthless, but had not yet forgotten what it was like to see his reflection in the mirror that others offered.

" – You didn't harm her, did you?"

The question wasn't really for her – she already knew the answer – but for him. He gave her a long look.

" – No." He turned away, looking somewhere past the wall. "Madam Mayor is safe and sound."

The weight of shared memories sat between them.

Belle forced herself to get up from the stairs and approach him. He stood rooted in place, in the middle of the murky foyer, and she couldn't shake the impression of a skittish animal, ready to bolt as soon as it sensed danger. What had changed, she wondered? Was it that now she recalled who she had been when they had known each other in their past lives?

She stalled a few feet away, both of them examining each other warily, and she wondered how to proceed. For all their shared past, there was now somehow incrementally more ground to cover if she were to breach the rift that had formed between them. She decided to tackle the simplest and most immediate hurdle – all the other accumulated hurts and pains could wait.

" – You know, you could have trusted me to impersonate due cluelessness for Regina's benefit."

He gave her a small rueful smile that was in no way convinced.

" – I'm afraid you've never been a particularly good liar, my dear. You tend to wear your emotions on your sleeve."

The critique of her acting talents notwithstanding, she could perhaps see his point. She had no taste for deceit, nor had she even had a chance to develop a habit of it. But of course, this wasn't the point. She told him so.

" – It's not about my being able to fool Regina, it's a question of how you engage with everyone around you. You can't hope to control every single detail and carry the weight of the world all by yourself just because you don't trust anyone else with the task." She stepped a little closer, and smiled at him tentatively. "What is the point of having a lover if you don't gain an ally at the same time?"

He narrowed his eyes, somewhere between amusement and wariness.

" – Is that what we are? Lovers? Did I inadvertently miss this important development?"

She waved her hand dismissively.

" – Semantics. That's not the point I am trying to make, and you know it."

His expression formed into something suspiciously close to outrage.

" – Semantics?! I happen to think that 'semantics' are quite important."

She chuckled, a bit more darkly than her old identity was probably prone to. Somehow, her new integrated self still managed to catch her off guard.

" – Yes, I realize semantics are your bread and butter, what with all the deal making. But in this case, what I was trying to say is that I can be an ally – you know, someone who will be on your side, and won't stab you in the back. Everyone needs allies. Even you."

She searched his face for a response, but emotions rippled across its surface, too fleeting to form into anything definitive. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping.

" – You cannot ask me to put you in danger. I won't lose you again."

She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest.

" – Perhaps, but what makes you think you can make that decision for me? If you cannot find in yourself to trust me, then I think we've lost each other already, and this discussion is moot."

He shifted in place, clearly made uncomfortable by the internal contradictions that pulled him in different directions. She found the parallel between his current discomfort and her earlier vacillations oddly àpropos. Both the pessimist and the optimist were now mercifully quiet, watching the proceedings with rapt attention. As long as the peanut gallery didn't comment, she was happy to let them.

" – I do trust you, Belle… It's simply that –"

He didn't seem to know how to finish the sentence, which was a first.

Intrigued by his new-found aphasia, she watched, patiently waiting for him to find his ground and complete his sentence. Finally, he sighed, his internal struggle apparently coming to some kind of resolution.

" – I am not a good man, dearie." The look he gave her was aloof, but she knew his expressions well enough to know that he donned the mask to conceal the more complex emotions underneath. She waited for him to continue.

" – You have always tried to see the best in me, as you do with others. Truth be told, however, I am not sure that there _is_ anything good left. You have asked me once whether I had been an ordinary man. Well, I'm afraid that man is long dead, and beyond even your abilities to resurrect." He huffed his humorless chuckle, the sharp smile tinged with hints of anger at the edges. "So if that is what you are holding out for, for me to metamorphose into a … romantic hero" – the last words, with the dramatically rolled 'r'-s, and accompanied with a hand flourish, were the spitting image of a pattern of mannerisms she was intimately familiar with from his previous avatar – "I'm afraid you are bound for disappointment. This…" he gestured to himself in a manner simultaneously ironic and dismissive "… is what you get."

His posture changed, agitation making him pace, and he was no longer facing her as if too afraid to confront what he might see there. It didn't take great insight to realize she was losing him to his own fears. She bit at her lip, but the words flew out before she could hold them back.

" – Don't be such a coward, Rumpelstiltskin."

Both the name and the epithet appeared to have the effect of a slap. He turned on his heels sharply, now facing her with a furious glare. Well, she had gone too far to backtrack now.

" – I am not holding out for a magical transformation, though I also do not think that you are as rotten as you seem to believe you are. But if you are afraid that having me in your life might change you, then by all means, say so."

He stalked closer, and planted himself firmly in her personal space, still bristling like an enraged hedgehog. Belle remained unimpressed, and met his angry stare squarely with her own.

" – Do not be so naïve as to think you can change me into what you would like to see. We both know that you deserve much better than what I can ever offer you."

" – Do not be so naïve as to think that intimacy doesn't have its own kind of efficacy" she spat back.

" – Not always for the better" he hissed.

" – Not always for the worse" Belle shrugged.

Then, the inevitable happened, faster than perhaps Belle could quite process. The anger served as a catalyst, and the old wounds, the rancor, attraction, kindness… and yes, love, the constant underneath it all mingled into a torrent of emotions that broke through the barriers between them. Their bodies tangled in an embrace, as if suddenly possessed by a will and logic of their own, her lips on his, her heart a roaring, frenzied beat in her ears, their hands roaming as if spurred on by the desperate need to ascertain that the other was still there.

After an eternity that still felt insufficient, they broke apart reluctantly, mostly to come up for air.

" – What now?" he asked her, and there was no humor in the question, despite the rather ironic timing. It was creaking under the weight of all the things left unsaid, of the precariousness of their present, and the uncertainties of their future. She ignored its loaded polyphony, and simply focused on its most immediate implications.

She smiled shakily, a fleeting thought about the mercurial nature of their relationship racing through her mind only to disappear as quickly as it formed.

" – Don't we have semantics to discuss?"

He gave her a long look, then his arms circled around her and drew her closer, his response muffled by her hair.

" – A long overdue conversation, I believe."

" – My room or yours?" she teased, and was rewarded with a wicked smirk.

" – What would be more appropriate, do you think?"

" – Your concern for my propriety is touching."

They had somehow found themselves ascending the stairs. She squealed at the surprise squeeze at an entirely inappropriate part of her anatomy. He had exploited the fact that he was lagging behind her on their way up. She was slightly shocked to find herself leading.

" – Who said anything about your propriety, dearie?"

The self-satisfied teasing in his voice called for retaliation.

" – Considering that the closest thing you have to a bed is the cousin of a haystack, perhaps my room would be more suitable?"

She heard a chuckle behind her.

" – Don't underestimate the charm of haystacks. You'd never know unless you tried one."

She laughed, and for once the sound was sincerely lighthearted.

" – I believe your peasant roots are showing" she giggled.

" – Do you object? Or am I about to have a princess and the pea dilemma on my hands?" he countered.

She paused, turning to face him, a mischievous grin on her face.

" – Wait, I remember reading that one. Wasn't the princess complaining about something hard in her bed that had kept her awake through the night?"

His eyes rounded, and then he was chuckling ruefully.

" – And you mean to tell me that I should be concerned about _your_ propriety?"

She turned away from him, with one teasing glance over her shoulder.

" – Well, I suppose we should find out, no?"

They did end up in his room, but for entirely pragmatic reasons – it was closer.

As they both made it inside, their banter gave way to other things, and she pushed the door closed with the tip of her foot, sealing out the outside world.


End file.
